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V 


KNOCKING  ROUND  THE  ROCKIES 


IN  THE  WYOMING  SPRUCE  WOODS. 


KNOCKING 


ROUND  THE  ROCKIES 


BY 


ERNEST  INGERSOLL 
» 


Jllustratcb 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  & BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

1883 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1882,  by 
HARPER  & BROTHERS, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


All  rights  reserved. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


In  the  Wyoming  Spruce  Woods 

Head-piece 

Departure  from  the  Missouri  . 

“Pike’s  Peak  or  Bust!” 

Evening  on  the  Plains 

A Race  to  New  Diggings 

Tail-piece 

Stuffing  the  War-bag 

Submission  to  the  Aparejo  .... 
First  Stage.— Adjusting  the  Pack  . 
Second  Stage. — “Moderate  Pulling” 
Third  Stage.— “Give  it  to  Her!”  . 

Tail-piece 

Home  of  the  White-crowned  Sparrow 
In  the  Edge  of  Middle  Park  . 

Tossing  the  Flapjack 

A Camp-dinner  ..." 

Our  Hunter 

Grand  Lake  

Tail-piece 

The  Dog-tents 

A Good-night  Whiff 

Panning-out  Gold-gravel 

Miner  and  Cradle 

The  Flume 

The  Sluice  and  Pump  ....... 

Hydraulic  Mining 

The  Prospector  and  His  Burro  . . 
Fort  Garland  and  Sierra  Blanca  . 

Along  the  Cochetopa  

Tail-piece 

First  Glimpse  of  the  Indian  Camp 
Interior  of  a “Wicky-up”  Lodge 


PAGE 

Frontispiece 

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...  6 

...  7 

...  8 
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. . . 26 

...  27 
...  27 

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...  38 
...  41 

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...  47 

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...  66 
...  67 

• . ■ 73 

• . . 75 

. . . 76 

. . . 78 

. . . 81 

. . . 84 

. . . 87 
. . . 88 

• • . 95 

. . . 96 

. . . 99 


viii  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGK 

Tail-piece 

Travelling  Above  the  Snow-line io8 

Looking  from  a Quartzite  Rock . no 

Trail  to  a High  Mine  in  the  Sierra  San  Juan in 

Baker’s  Park  and  Sultan  Mountain 114 

Seen  from  an  Assayer’s  Window 121 

The  Cargo  and  its  Carriers 130 

Shooting  the  Bighorns 133 

“A  Strong  Little  Mule  Named  Molly” 137 

Topographers  at  Work 141 

The  Sweetwater  Plains 145 

The  Fight 148 

The  Result 149 

Pronghorn  Antelopes  Killing  a Rattlesnake 153 

Tail-piece 155 

A Canon  in  the  Mesa  Verde 165 

Tail-piece 172 

The  Mule-deer 175 

A Hunter’s  Blockade 179 

A Tributary  of  the  Green  River 182 

The  Wind  Rivers 190 

The  Field-laboratory  of  an  Ornithologist 193 

In  the  Gros  Ventre  Hills 197 

A Leisure  Afternoon 200 

The  Carson  Sink 202 

Tail-piece 210 

A Sensation 212 

Contented  Victims  of  a Delusion 215 

Icy  Ablutions 218 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


I. 


IT  was  my  good  fortune,  in  1874,  to  become  attached  to  the  United 
States  Geological  and  Geographical  Survey  of  the  Territories, 
through  the  invitation  of  its  chief.  This  led  to  my  making  a foot- 
and-saddle  campaign  through  the  southern  part  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. It  was  so  enjoyable  and  profitable  a summer,  that  I have  since 
availed  myself  of  every  opportunity  to  explore  the  fastnesses  of  those 
noble  ranges,  and  I now  propose  to  refresh  pleasant  recollections  by 
recounting  some  experiences — none  of  which  were  startling,  it  may  as 
well  be  said  to  start  with. 

If  the  reader  should  chance  to  recognize  something  he  has  read 
before,  he  should  remember  that  I have  dredged  the  material  for  these 
pages  out  of  the  deep  sea  of  magazine*  and  newspaper f files  where 
they  sunk,  years  ago,  after  the  briefest  possible  surface-existence. 

* Harper  s Magazine,  Scribner  s Monthly,  St.  Nicholas,  and  Good  Company. 
t New  York  Tributie,  New  York  Herald,  Forest  and  Stream,  The  Country,  The 
Congregatio7talist,  Spirit  of  the  Times,  The  Hour,  Army  and  Navy  four7ial,  and 
others. 


4 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


II. 

The  initial  point  of  all  expeditions,  large  and  small,  into  the  moun- 
tains was,  and  remains,  the  city  of  Denver,  the  capital  of  Colorado,  and 
a marvellous  town. 

That  gold  existed  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  has  been  certainly  known 
since  the  earliest  exploration  of  them  ; it  is  one  of  the  most  curious 
facts  about  the  whole  matter,  indeed,  that  the  utilization  of  this  wealth 
did  not  begin  sooner.  About  1803,  for  instance,  a Kentuckian  named 
James  Pursley,  while  travelling  with  a band  of  Indians  “into  the  moun- 
tains which  give  birth  to  the  La  Platte,  Arkansaw,  etc.,  etc.”  (the  locality 
seems  to  have  been  near  Mount  Lincoln),  found  gold  there,  and  “ car- 
ried some  of  the  virgin  mineral  in  his  shot-pouch  for  months.”  Other 
wanderers  reported  it  at  various  times,  according  to  tradition,  but  no 
publicity  was  given  to  the  fact,  so  that  the  real  history  of  the  mining 
excitement  in  the  lofty  mid-continent  ranges,  and  the  annals  of  Denver, 
their  metropolis,  begin  with  the  summer  of  1858,  and  are  associated 
with  the  name  of  W.  Green  Russell. 

This  gentleman  was  a Georgian,  who  had  learned  the  delights  of 
gold-digging  where  the  gentle  Etowah  rolls  enticing  sands  through  the 
charming  gorges  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  When  the  gold  excitement  of  the 
Pacific  coast  aroused  the  country  he  started  Westward,  taking  his  course 
up  the  Arkansas,  passing  along  the  eastern  base  of  Pike’s  Peak,  and  so 
northward  to  the  emigrant  trail.  He  observed  at  that  time  what  seemed 
to  him  indications  of  gold-gravel,  but  did  not  pause  to  verify  it.  When, 
therefore,  a few  years  later,  he  retraced  his  steps,  he  halted  long  enough 
in  Colorado  to  assure  himself  of  the  richness  of  its  bars,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded homeward  to  organize  a party  to  return  with  him  to  this  point. 
Two  brothers,  some  friends,  and  a few  Cherokee  Indians  joined  him.* 


* The  Cherokees  had  previously  been  through  here  searching  a promised  land 
for  their  tribe,  and  had  themselves  reported  gold.  They  concluded  to  remain  in 
the  Indian  Territory,  but  left  their  name  attached  to  several  springs,  mountains. 


PROSPECTING  AT  AURARIA, 


Following  up  the  Arkansas  river,  they  were  joined  by  adventurers,  until 
finally  the  party  numbered  thirty  or  forty,  and  reached  the  base  of  the 
mountains  early  in  the  summer.  Finding  nothing  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Pike’s  Peak,  they  advanced  up  Squirrel  creek,  and  then  across  to 
Cherry  creek,  where  they  built  a village,  near  its  head.  Sluicing  there 
proved  of  small  consequence,  however,  and  finally  they  worked  down  to 
the  site  of  the  present  city,  where  Cherry  creek  empties  into  the  South 
Platte.  Here,  building  a camp,  they  prepared  to  spend  the  winter. 
Exaggerated  reports  of  their  success  having  gone  back  to  the  border 
States,  recruits  came  steadily,  until,  by  the  time  cold  weather  really  set 
in,  three  or  four  hundred  persons  (only  three  of  them  women)  were  gath- 


DEPARTURE  FROM  THE  MISSOURI. 


ered  in  the  camp.  The  settlement 
was  christened  Auraria,  after  the 
mining  town  of  that  name  near 
Dahlonega,  Georgia ; and  straggling  immigration  during  the  winter 
brought  in  many  merchants  and  artisans  as  well  as  gold-seekers. 

Meanwhile  the  story  of  the  new  discoveries  of  gold  in  Pike’s  Peak 


etc.,  as  a memento  of  their  visit  of  inspection.  Little  is  known  of  this  interesting 
journey  “looking  for  a home,”  in  which  about  half  the  tribe  participated,  the  re- 
mainder staying  in  Western  North  Carolina, 


6 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


(for  all  the  mountain  region  was  known  by  that  name,  though  the 
Peak  itself  was  seventy -five  miles  from  the  diggings)  hastened  east- 
ward, gathering  marvels  as  it  ran,  and  was  attested  by  sundry  goose- 
quills  full  of  dust.  Just  following  the  financial  distresses  of  1857, 
thousands  of  men  were  ready  for  anything,  and  the  spring  of  1859 
witnessed  the  beginning  of  such  an  emigration  across  the  plains  as 
had  only  been  equalled  by  the  wildest  hours  of  the  rush  to  California 
a decade  before.  Council  Bluffs,  Atchison,  Kansas  City,  and  all  the 
other  outposts  of  civilization  became  filled  with  excited  crowds  hastily- 
preparing  for  the  two  months’  journey  across  the  plains,  and  an  almost 


“ pike’s  peak  or  bust  !” 


continuous  procession  of  wagons  of  every  description  filed  out  from  their 
streets  to  undergo  the  hardships  and  perils  of  that  eager  race  to  be  first 
at  the  gold-fields.  He  who  could  not  pay  for  the  swift  stage  became, 
driver  or  escort  of  a freight-wagon,  or  followed  along  with  his  ambu- 
lance ; while  thousands  rode  on  horseback,  or  walked,  trundling  their 
luggage  in  a handcart  or  wheelbarrow,  or  slung  upon  their  backs.  Those 
were  the  storied  days  when  the  motto  “ Pike’s  Peak  or  Bust !”  was  in- 
scribed on  many  a wagon-sheet  by  jubilant  owners,  and  those  also  the 
days  when  the  same  wagons,  hopelessly  bogged  in  some  treacherous 
fording  of  the  Arkansas,  or  broken  down  among  the  rocks  of  a stony 
bit  of  butte-road,  were  grimly  labelled  “ Busted,  by  Thunder!” 

The  vanguard  of  this  exodus  reached  the  Platte  in  April,  and  it  is 
estimated  that  nearly  a hundred  thousand  persons  followed  during  the 
summer.  We  are  told  that  they  were  in  the  main  from  the  better 
classes  of  men  at  home,  but  that  nineteen-twentieths  were  entirely  igno- 
rant of  gold-mining.  Thousands  were  disappointed,  of  course,  and  a thin 
returning  stream  met,  but  failed  to  discourage,  the  new-comers,  who 
pressed  across  the  weary,  bone-marked  plains,  sure  that  their  lot  would 
be  an  exception  to  all  the  misfortunes  described. 

As  soon  as  the  snows  were  sufficiently  melted  the  Russells  and 


INVASION  OF  THE  SNOWY  RANGE. 


7 


others  pushed  into  the  mountains,  reasoning  that,  if  these  outer  streams 
contained  a sediment  of  drifted  gold,  some  source  of  the  riches  must 
remain  in  the  rocks  whence  the  waters  came.  One  party,  under  the 
leadership  of  J.  H.  Gregory,  started  up  Clear  creek  to  a point  just 
above  where  Black  Hawk  now  is,  and  began  prospecting  in  the  gulch. 
“He  climbed  the  hill,”  says  a written  account  of  the  incident,  “ where 
he  believed  the  wash  or  gold-dirt  would  naturally  come  from,  scraped 
away  the  grass  and  leaves,  and  filled  his  gold-pan  with  dirt  and  took 
it  down  to  the  gulch.  Upon  panning  (washing)  it  down  there  was 
about  four  dollars’  worth  of  gold  in  it!  He  dropped  his  pan,  and  im- 
mediately summoned  all  the  gods  of  the  universe  to  witness  his  as- 
tounding triumph.  That  night  he  could  not  sleep.” 

Whether  any  immortals  obeyed  the  summons  the  record  fails  to 
inform  us,  but  it  is  certain  that  it  was  a very  few  days  only  before 
the  rugged  trails,  slippery  with  ice  and  gagged  with  snow,  became 


EVENING  ON  THE  PLAINS. 


thronged  with  the  well-nigh  disheartened  emigrants,  fired  with  a new 
hope.  Almost  simultaneously  discoveries  of  rich  bars  and  veins  were 
made  at  Idaho  Springs,  Boulder,  Golden,  and  elsewhere  ; and  the  moun- 
tains, from  Estes  Park  to  the  Sangre  de  Christo,  began  to  be  overrun 
with  prospectors ; while  gold  and  silver  ledges  and  placers  were  discov- 
ered so  rapidly,  that  no  one  could  keep  track  of  them,  and  thousands  of 
claims  were  taken  up  on  both  sides  and  among  the  very  summits  of 


8 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES, 


A RACE  TO  NEW  DIGGINGS. 


the  Snowy  Range,*  under  laws  and  regulations  framed  by  the  miners 
themselves.  Valleys  hitherto  undisturbed  except  by  the  light  tread  of 
the  moccason  and  the  scarcely  timid  game  it  followed,  cliffs  that  had 
echoed  to  no  other  sound  than  the  noise  of  the  elements  or  the  voices 
of  bird  and  beast,  now  resounded  with  human  energy,  and  were  de- 
spoiled by  the  ruthless  shovel  and  axe.  The  sage-brush  yielded  place 
to  wagon-tracks,  and  the  splendid  spruces  were  felled  to  lie  docile  in 
the  walls  of  log  cities  that  sprung  into  shape  with  the  startled  swift- 
ness and  decision  of  magic. 


* Fine  mines  of  silver — which  are  still  worked — were  opened  a few  years  later 
on  the  brow  of  Mount  Lincoln,  at  an  elevation  considerably  over  14,000  feet,  in  the 
midst  of  perpetual  snow. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  DENVER. 


9 


There  is  much  of  romantic,  picturesque,  and  human  interest  in  the 
story  of  these  early  years  of  gold  and  silver  hunting  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  ; but  I have  said  enough  to  show  that,  while  thousands 
turned  back,  tens  of  thousands  had  good  cause  to  remain,  and  that 
this  widely  scattered,  nomadic  army  needed  and  naturally  would  come 
to  have  a central  point,  where  supplies  could  be  gathered  and  dis- 
pensed; where  a post-office  and  express-office  might  be  established,  and 
where  the  convergent  interests  of  this  new  and  isolated  world  might 
find  a focus.  How  Denver  fulfilled  these  conditions,  and  became,  from 
the  very  first,  the  metropolis  of  the  mountains,  it  is  now  time  to  explain. 

When  the  Georgians  built  their  cabins  for  winter-quarters  among 
the  lofty  cottonwoods  between  the  Platte  and  Cherry  creek,  they 
thought  “ Indian  Row  ” a good  enough  name ; but  when  a settlement 
grew  up  around  them,  and  more  men  kept  coming,  they  surveyed  a 
town-site  and  named  it  ‘‘ Auraria,”  as  already  stated.  At  the  same  time 
a few  persons  crossed  to  the  east  side  of  Cherry  creek  and  built  a group 
of  cabins,  which  they  called  “ St.  Charles  and  a few  others  “ located  ” 
on  a ridge  northward  under  the  name  of  the  Highlands.”  These 
last  two  were  abortive  attempts  at  city-making,  however ; and  during 
the  winter  of  i858-’59  a party,  with  General  Larimer  at  its  head,  came 
to  St.  Charles,  “ ” the  now  deserted  settlement,  laid  out  a nine 

hundred  and  sixty  acre  town-site  of  their  own,  and  christened  it  Den- 
ver City,  in  honor  of  the  Governor  of  Kansas,  of  which  territory  all  this 
region  soon  became  a county,  known  as  Arapahoe. 

This  last  deliberate  movement  was  a direct  recognition  of  the  ad- 
vantages which  this  point  offered  as  a town-site.  It  lay  midway  be- 
tween the  routes  of  travel  to  the  Pacific  coast  along  the  North  Platte 
and  by  the  way  of  Santa  Fe.  It  was  at  the  junction  of  two  water- 
courses, along  which  grew  abundant  timber  and  unlimited  pasturage. 
It  was  a situation  central  to  the  half-dozen  passes  and  canons  which 
then,  as  now,  constituted  the  gate-ways  through’  the  mountain  barrier 
into  the  interior  valleys  and  parks.  Lastly,  it  had  priority,  and  was  fast 
getting  the  advertising  which  has  ever  since  been  so  liberally  accorded 
to  it,  and  to  which  it  owes,  in  no  small  degree,  its  present  success. 

Each  of  the  forty-one  share-holders  was  required  to  erect  a cabin  at 
once,  and  General  Larimer  was  the  first  man  to  put  up  his  roof.  Den- 
ver thus  sprung  at  one  bound  into  rivalry  with  Auraria ; but  the  strife 
for  supremacy  was  brief,  and  resulted  in  a consolidation  by  which  the 
older  sister  of  the  twain  lost  her  name,  and  became  simply  West  Den- 
ver; or,  when  spoken  of  with  contumely,  simply,  ’Cross  the  creek.” 

2 


10 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


Those  were  wild  days  in  the  young  city’s  history.  Thousands  of  ex- 
cited people  thronged  her  streets,  living  in  tents,  in  wagons,  in  dug-outs, 
and  in  the  rudest  of  log-huts  and  shanties — the  best  way  they  could. 
Everything  eaten  had  to  be  brought  across  the  plains,  except  game  and 
some  cattle  that  Mexicans  would  drive  up  from  Santa  Fe.  Yet  there 
was  no  great  scarcity ; and  though  prices  were  almost  uniformly  ten 
times  as  much  as  at  present,  gold-dust  and  coin  were  abundant,  and 
wages  in  proportion.  If  a man  thought  it  cheap  to  be  able  to  buy  a 
sack  of  flour  at  ten  dollars,  he  felt  outraged  if  he  was  not  getting  fifteen 
or  twenty  dollars  a day  for  his  labor. 

The  fall  of  1859  Denver  very  city-like  and  busy.  Machinery 
poured  in,  and  with  it  every  appliance  of  civilization  possible  at  such  a 
distance  from  the  frontier  of  even  the  Western  States.  All  kinds  of 
business  enterprises  were  projected,  and  among  others  a newspaper. 
The  Honorable  William  N.  Byers — a gentleman  who  has  been  identified 
with  the  best  interests  of  Colorado — was  the  moving  spirit  in  this  lat- 
ter venture,  and  its  history  is  a good  illustration  of  ways  and  means  in 
Pike’s  Peak  ” twenty  years  ago.  Mr.  Byers  and  his  associates  heard  that 
there  was  lying  idle  at  Belleview,  near  Omaha,  such  a printing-office 
as  they  wanted — a relic  of  a starved-out  journal.  Mr.  Byers  went  there 
and  secured  the  property,  leaving  Omaha  with  it  on  the  8th  of  March, 
1859.  The  streams  were  all  flooded,  snow  and  rain  storms  frequent, 
and  the  third  day  out  the  trains  waded  through  a frozen  sheet  of  water 
three  feet  deep  and  two  miles  wide,  breaking  the  ice  as  they  progressed. 
The  wagons  carrying  the  press  and  types  had  a variety  of  mishaps, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  month  had  only  reached  Fort  Kearney,  185  miles 
from  Omaha.  Beyond  there,  however,  the  roads  were  firm,  and  faster 
time  was  made,  so  that  on  the  20th  of  April  the  precious  press  and 
types  entered  Denver.  The  name  of  this  fair-sized  and  nicely-printed 
weekly  was  The  Rocky  Mountain  News.  To-day  it  is  an  eight-page  daily, 
and  owned  by  another  company,  but  the  name  remains,  and  is  widely 
known.  Its  salutatory  is  worth  quoting,  as  a piece  of  brave  crowing, 
for  that  very  week  was  the  time  of  the  remarkable  stampede  which  car- 
ried back  in  a panic  four-fifths  of  the  emigrants  who  had  set  out  for  the 
promised  land,  scared  by  a cry  of  fraud  and  certain  starvation  : 

“We  make  our  debut!'  said  this  introductory  paragraph,  “ in  the  Far 
West,  where  the  snowy  mountains  look  down  upon  us  in  the  hottest 
summer  day  as  well  as  in  the  winter’s  cold ; here,  where  a few  months 
ago  the  wild  beasts  and  wilder  Indians  held  undisturbed  possession — 
where  now  surges  the  advancing  wave  of  Anglo-Saxon  enterprise  and 


A PERIOD  OF  DEPRESSION. 


11 


civilization — where  soon,  we  proudly  hope,  will  be  erected  a great  and 
powerful  State,  another  empire  in  the  sisterhood  of  empires.” 

This  was  plucky,  and  partook  of  the  character  of  bluff,”  for  real- 
ly the  stoutest-hearted  had  intelligent  doubts  about  the  truth  of  the 
boast ; but  the  journal  can  take  to  itself  much  credit  for  staying  the 
stampede,  and  bringing  capital  and  brains  to  the  development  of  the 
new  camp. 

It  was  not  long  before  rivals  sprung  up,  and  in  May  of  the  following 
year  a daily  edition  was  begun,  to  which  a second  daily.  The  Herald,  op- 
posed itself  within  a few  weeks.  At  first  the  nearest  post-office  was  at 
Fort  Laramie,  220  miles  northward,  and  the  mail  reached  there  from 
the  East  only  once  or  twice  a month.  About  the  ist  of  May,  1859,  ^ 
messenger  was  induced  to  go  to  this  post-office,  and  through  an  utter 
wilderness  he  brougjit  a mule -load  of  letters  and  newspapers,  which 
v/ere  delivered  on  payment  of  twenty-five  cents  each  for  the  former,  and 
fifty  cents  for  the  latter.  Nor  did  affairs  speedily  improve.  More  than 
tw'o  years  passed  before  Denver  had  its  own  post-office,  all  mails  being 
carried  from  the  East  on  the  overland  coaches,  which  came  regularly 
after  June,  1859,  letters  were  charged  for  as  express  matter,  at 
twenty-five  cents  apiece. 

There  is  a whole  book  to  be  written  some  day — and  a book  of  thrill- 
ing interest — on  the  overland  coach  lines,  the  pony  express,  and  the 
fast-freight  arrangements,  which  preceded  the  trans-continental  railways. 
Their  histories  might  properly  come  in  here,  but  would  take  up  so 
much  space  that  I prefer  passing  them  by  altogether  to  making  an  un- 
satisfactory mention.  Denver  owed  much,  in  its  infancy,  to  the  enter- 
prise and  pluck  of  its  stage  and  express  managers. 

At  this  time  the  War  of  the  Rebellion  was  raging  in  the  East,  and  a 
general  Indian  war  harassed  the  plains.  In  1863  mails  w^ere  so  irregular 
that  weeks  would  elapse  without  one,  and  what  was  received  came  by 
the  way  of  Panama  and  San  Francisco.  The  freighting  business  was 
demoralized,  so  that  many  a hundred  pounds  of  paper  cost  a hundred 
dollars  for  its  transportation  alone ; and  wrapping,  tissue,  and  even  let- 
ter paper  were  used  to  keep  up  the  daily  issues  of  the  Nezvs,  which 
often  shrunk  to  a mere  bulletin  of  military  orders,  etc.,  for  lack  of  some- 
thing to  print  upon.  In  1861  the  telegraph  reached  Fort  Kearney, 
where  it  rested  two  years.  Then  the  Denver  journals  begun  taking 
news  despatches,  which  were  printed  here  only  four  days  after  their  ori- 
gin in  New  York.  This  increased  the  competition  between  the  papers, 
and  the  most  bitter  personalities  were  indulged  in  through  the  editorial 


12 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


columns.  It  is  great  fun  to*read  these  old  files;  it  is  like  witnessing  a 
battle  between  men  of  straw.  Both  offices  established  pony -express 
lines  to  the  principal  mining  camps  in  the  mountains,  and  their  daily 
editions  were  delivered  in  Black  Hawk,  Central  City,  and  other  neigh- 
borhoods, forty  or  fifty  miles  away,  more  quickly  than  the  steam-cars 
now  manage  to  do  it.  Under  these  circumstances  twenty-five  dollars  a 
year  was  not  a high  subscription  rate,  the  retail  price  being  twenty-five 
cents  a copy  ; but  this  was  in  gold,  which,  at  that  time,  was  worth  twice 
as  much  as  currency.  There  was  no  lack  of  local  news,  of  course,  in  so 
wide-awake  a community,  and  these  journals  were  more  successful  than 
is  usual  in  manufacturing  ‘‘  items  ” on  their  own  account. 

In  1859  the  town  became  overrun  with  gamblers  and  cut-throats, 
who  thought  themselves  too  far  from  authority  and  too  strong  in  num- 
bers to  be  interfered  with  ; but  one  night  several  of  them  were  hanged, 
and  the  next  night  others.  Rumors  of  a Vigilance  Com.mittee  got 
abroad,  and  the  leading  desperadoes  found  it  to  their  advantage  to 
depart.  As  a consequence  the  reign  of  terror,  which  forms  a part  of 
the  early  history  of  all  the  Pacific  Railroad  towns,  never  amounted  to 
much  in  Denver.  Still  there  were  plenty  of  bad  men,  and  the  carrying 
of  fire-arms  was  a universal  custom.  Gambling,  too,  was  as  open  and 
prevalent  as  it  now  is  in  Leadville,  Durango,  or  Cheyenne ; and  “ tan- 
gle-foot whiskey,”  at  two  bits  a drink,  was  to  be  had  on  every  corner, 
and  two  or  three  times  between.  As  a natural  result  quarrelling  and 
bloodshed  were  of  so  frequent  occurrence  as  to  excite  no  notice ; and 
when  anybody  was  killed, 

“ They  piled  the  stiffs  outside  the  door,” 

and  went  on  with  the  game,  under  the  impression  that  it  served  the 
dead  man  right  for  not  being  quick  enough  to  “ get  the  drop  ” on  the 
other  fellow. 

A single  incident  of  the  beginning  of  a higher  sentiment  on  the 
subject  may  be  worth  the  space  to  print  it. 

One  night,  in  1861,  when  The  Rocky  Mountain  Ncivs  was  a few 
months  old,  a man  named  Harrison  shot  a companion  across  the  card- 
table  in  one  of  those  “ silver  exchanges”  which  in  the  young  metropolis 
were  a good  deal  closer  together  than  chapels.  Though  well  aware  of 
the  existence  of  the  general  ideas  which  made  such  a state  of  affairs 
possible,  the  News  was  so  utterly  lost  to  all  regard  for  Mr.  Harrison’s 
sensibilities  that  it  denounced  the  case  as  Murder  (with  a big  M),  and 
called  for  proper  punishment.  The  accused  man  took  it  good-natured- 


THE  ATTACK  UPON  THE  “NEWS.” 


13 


ly ; but  some  of  his  friends,  having  drunk  themselves  into  a state  of  bel- 
ligerency, concluded  that  this  slur  upon  the  honor  of  a citizen  must  be 
avenged.  Mr.  Byers,  the  editor  of  the  News,  sitting  quietly  at  his  desk 
that  afternoon,  was  considerably  surprised,  therefore,  to  find  himself 
suddenly  grasped  by  three  men  in  a way  that  rendered  him  powerless. 
They  cursed  him  in  the  foulest  manner,  and  threatened  him  with  six- 
barrelled  revolvers.  Keeping  his  wits  about  him,  nevertheless,  and  cool- 
ly opening  a parley,  Mr.  Byers  secured  a little  time,  until  the  ruffians 
were  alarmed  by  the  click  of  a gun-lock,  and  looked  up  to  see  three  or 
four  rifles,  the  possessors  of  which  were  only  waiting  to  get  an  oppor- 
tunity to  fire  without  killing  the  editor.  The  News  office  had  reckon- 
ed upon  the  character  of  the  men  it  had  been  writing  against,  and  for 
weeks  every  printer  and  pressman  had  had  a musket  at  his  elbow  ready 
for  emergencies. 

Mr.  Byers,  however,  promised  to  go  with  the  men  to  see  Harrison, 
the  alleged  murderer;  and  between  the  two  desperadoes,  flourishing 
their  revolvers  and  momentarily  threatening  to  kill  him,  he  walked  up 
to  the  saloon.  The  instant  they  entered  Mr.  Byers  saw  that  the  out- 
rage had  not  been  instigated  by  Harrison,  who  evinced  his  displeasure 
most  emphatically,  and  demanded  the  instant  delivery  of  the  editor 
into  his  own  custody.  Then,  taking  him  into  a back  room,  he  warned 
him  of  the  danger  from  these  uncontrollable  ruffians,  and  opened  the 
rear  door.  Mr.  Byers  took  the  hint,  and  made  haste  to  return  to  his 
office,  but  not  to  his  desk — a very  wise  precaution. 

Finding  their  prey  escaped.  Wood  and  Steele,  the  would-be  avengers, 
started  out  to  collect  a mob,  but  kept  carefully  out  of  range  of  the 
office-windows  of  the  newspaper.  Finally,  however,  Steele  mounted  a 
swift  horse  and  dashed  by,  firing  his  revolver  through  the  window  at 
Mr.  Byers’s  desk  with  an  aim  which  would  have  been  fatal  had  the 
editor  been  sitting  there.  Receiving  portions  of  two  charges  of  shot 
from  the  printers  as  he  passed,  he  dashed  on  through  West  Denver, 
brandishing  his  pistol  in  the  face  of  all  opposition,  and  returned  across 
the  Blake  Street  bridge  for  a second  attack.  Just  here,  however,  riding 
ahead  of  him,  was  a friend  of  Mr.  Byers.  Hearing  Steele  approach,  this 
gentleman  quietly  turned  in  his  saddle  and,  asking  no  questions,  sent  a 
rifle-ball  through  the  “ terror’s  ” brain. 

Meanwhile,  an  impromptu  ‘Maw-and-order  ” posse  eomitatiis  had  ar- 
rested Wood;  a court  was  extemporized  and  a hasty  trial  conducted, 
in  the  presence  of  a crowd  whose  temper  emulated  that  of  the  mob 
which  dragged  Captain  Porteous  from  the  Heart  of  Midlothian.  Yet 


14 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


there  were  plenty  of  desperate  sympathizers  with  Wood,  and  whispers 
of  an  attempt  to  rescue  him  were  heard  ; but  a hundred  rifles  and  six- 
shooters  clicked  ominously,  and  the  idea  was  abandoned.  Even  then 
the  sentence  of  Judge  Lynch  was  not  death,  but  banishment.  Wood 
was  given  his  arms,  a horse,  and  twenty  minutes  to  get  out  of  town. 
A mounted  escort  showed  him  the  way  with  grim  politeness,  and  he 
vanished  forever  over  the  hills  to  the  northward. 

There  are  many  old  citizens  who  look  back  to  those  days  from  our 
tamer  times  with  a certain  longing  interest,  as  to  the  golden  age  of 
Denver’s  history.  This  was  the  kind  of  city  which  Horace  Greeley 
saw,  and  wrote  to  The  Tribune  about,  and  which  Albert  D.  Richardson 
describes  in  his  book.  Yet  there  was  a deal  of  quiet  family  comfort, 
too,  even  in  those  days,  only  it  was  hid  beneath  the  turbulence  of  the 
surface-life. 

Although  Auraria  had  long  before  lost  its  identity,  yet  the  west  side 
remained  the  business  part  of  Denver  until  1864;  and  the  circumstance 
which  caused  a change  of  base  was  the  memorable  flood  of  that  spring, 
one  of  the  events  from  which  Denver  people  date.  For  several  days 
a mixture  of  rain  and  snow  had  fallen  over  the  whole  region  in  an 
almost  continuous  storm,  and  Cherry  creek,  ordinarily  an  insignificant, 
civil  stream,  was  full  to  the  top  of  its  banks.  At  last  there  came  an 
unprecedented  fall  of  hail,  followed  by  an  hour  or  two  of  warmth,  and 
then  by  a thunder-storm.  Hundreds  of  small  reservoirs  up  on  the  Di- 
vide were  thus  unlocked  at  a stroke,  and  in  pitchy  darkness,  rain,  thun- 
der and  lightning  their  loosened  contents  swept  down  the  valley  of 
•Cherry  creek,  and  struck  the  town  in  a series  of  prodigious  waves. 
Uprooted  trees,  drifted  houses  and  barns,  and  floating  debris  of  every 
sort  were  borne  along  upon  the  swift  water  ; and  the  inhabitants  of 
half  the  city,  particularly  on  the  west  side,  were  driven  from  their  sway- 
ing houses  by  this  unexpected,  black,  and  icy  flood.  It  was  a night  of 
destruction  of  property  and  horror  to  mankind  throughout  the  whole 
region,  for  Cherry  creek  was  only  one  of  many  that  rose  into  majestic 
proportions,  and  asserted  themselves  as  the  channels  of  awful  power. 
Yet  less  than  a score  of  persons  lost  their  lives,  and  it  was  all  over  in 
a few  hours.  The  most  serious  loss  sustained  was  that  of  the  county’s 
.safe,  wherein  were  deposited  a large  number  of  deeds,  leases,  mining 
records,  and  other  important  documents,  the  destruction  of  which  has 
been  the  source  of  a vast  deal  of  litigation.  Shrewd  ones  suspect  that 
the  safe  was  found  long  ago  ; but  that  those  who  prefer-  that  it  should 
never  turn  up  have  paid  so  much  more  highly  to  have  it  buried  again 


THREATS  OF  AN  INDIAN  WAR. 


15 


than  the  public  authorities  offered  for  its  production,  that  it  never  will 
be  seen  until  exhumed  by  some  future  antiquary. 

Cherry  creek  has  ‘‘boomed”  without  warning  three  or  four  times 
since  then,  and  will  do  so  in  future ; but  the  guards  along  its  banks 
and  channel  are  such  as,  it  is  hoped,  will  ward  off  disaster.  When  the 
water  is  heard  and  seen  coming  down  in  a mighty  flood,  crested  with 
great  waves  and  spreading  from  one  trembling  bank  to  another,  the 
fire-bells  ring  and  the  creek-side  becomes  thronged  with  spectators  and 
men  with  ropes,  grapnels,  and  hooks.  As  night  advances  they  build 
great  bonfires  at  the  end  of  each  street  which  touches  the  creek  ; and 
the  angry,  chocolate-colored,  swift-racing  waters  run  this  long  gauntlet 
of  fires,  that  throw  their  rays  far  across  the  turbid  waste  and  lend  new 
vividness  to  what  is  always  an  exciting  picture. 

Meanwhile,  Denver  had  grown  to  possess  fifteen  hundred  or  two 
thousand  people.  More  and  more  persons  had  gone  into  the  moun- 
tains, and  every  available  point  near  the  town  had  been  pre-empted  for 
ranching.  The  Arapahoes  of  the  plains  and  the  Utes  of  the  mountains, 
seeing  this  inroad  of  white  men,  were  far  from  pleased,  and  by  the 
spring  of  1864  their  depredations  had  culminated  in  united  war  over 
the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  plains.  The  transportation  of 
merchandise  from  the  East  becam.e  impossible,  except  in  great  com- 
panies, under  armed  escort,  and  even  then  hundreds  of  men  lost  their 
lives.  My  memory  teems  with  thrilling  incidents  as  I write.  The 
mail -service  along  the  Platte  became  broken  up,  and  Colorado  was 
practically  cut  off  from  the  Atlantic  coast.  Even  the  city  itself  was 
fearful  of  attack  and  massacre.  Knowing  this,  it  is  strange  that  so 
complete  a panic  should  have  occurred  as  happened  one  memorable 
night  early  in  June,  when  the  report  that  an  army  of  Arapahoes  were 
about  to  sack  the  town  spread  through  the  streets.  It  was  a wonder- 
fully propitious  moment  for  the  savages.  Most  of  the  able-bodied  men 
of  the  town  were  away  in  the  mountains,  with  teams  on  the  plains,  or 
doing  service  in  the  three  regiments  that  Colorado  sent  into  the  Union 
army.  At  Camp  Weld,  a mile  away  up  the  Platte,  were  only  a cor- 
poral’s guard  of  sick  and  disabled  soldiers,  and  a large  number  of  fami- 
lies who  had  been  rendered  homeless  by  the  recent  flood.  The  bar- 
racks lay  right  in  the  track  pf  the  Indians,  and  a messenger  started  at 
a breakneck  pace  to  give  warning.  The  wife  of  the  officer  in  charge 
was  sitting  quietly  sewing,  in  company  with  another  lady,  when  the 
door  suddenly  burst  open,  and  a soldier,  his  knees  knocking  together 
and  his  face  pale  with  fright,  gasped  out,  “ D-d-on’t  be  fri-frightened, 


IG 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


ladies;  there  are  only  th-thr-three  thousand  Indians  a mile  and  a half 
from  Denver!”  and  vanished.  The  barracks  resolved  itself  at  once  into 
Bedlam,  where  hysterics  developed  a clamor  which  might  well  have 
frightened  away  even  a war  party  of  Arapahoes.  The  acting  comman- 
dant was  away;  but  Mrs.  Sanford,  thinking  that  he  would  come  out  to 
the  post,  decided  to  stay  where  she  was,  and  persuaded  several  other 
ladies  to  the  same  sensible  course.  Before  long  the  captain  came,  sure 
enough,  and  marshalled  the  few  women  and  children  for  the  dreary 
walk  into  town.  The  darkness  was  intense,  the  plain  was  rough  and 
full  of  cactus  and  bayonet-grass,  and  everybody  was  overburdened  and 
fearful.  In  town  bells  were  ringing,  men  were  organizing  into  armed 
corps,  and  the  women  and  children,  many  in  their  night-clothes,  were 
being  crowded  into  the  only  brick  building  on  the  west  side — the  large 
three-story  structure  now  occupied  by  the  Lindell  Hotel.  The  build- 
ing had  been  considered  unsafe,  even  to  stand  alone  ; but  no  one 
thought  of  this,  and  in  packing  it  full  of  people  hazarded  the  greatest 
peril  of  the  evening.  So  *our  friends  from  Camp  Weld  made  their  way 
out  as  hurriedly  as  they  got  in,  and  took  refuge  in  a log-hut  until  some- 
thing more  alarming  should  appear  than  had  yet  shown  itself.  It  was 
a night  as  full  of  dread  and  terror  as  that  of  the  flood,  and  more  so,  for 
it  affected  everybody ; but  plenty  of  comical  things  happened.  A dozen 
or  so  cravens  among  the  men  crept  into  the  old  brick  building,  cower- 
ing among  the  women,  who  were  not  soothed  by  their  abject  faces ; 
and  one  fellow  was  found  hiding  beneath  his  wife’s  wide-circling  skirts. 
One  little  party,  fleeing  in  from  the  suburbs,  heard  the  noise  of  what 
seemed  a thousand  hoofs,  and  saw  a host  of  dark  forms  sweep  over  a 
ridge  of  the  prairie.  They  knew  their  time  had  come,  and  dropped 
upon  their  knees  in  the  prickly-pear,  clasping  imploring  hands  to — half 
a dozen  mules  1 

These  are  not  the  customary  examples  of  Far  Western  heroism, 
but,  unfortunately,  are  ''  ower-true  tales.” 

Well,  after  a night  of  scouting  and  patrolling,  waiting  and  watching, 
praying  and  cursing,  fear  and  fury,  morning  dawned ; but  no  Indians,  or 
traces  of  Indians,  showed  themselves.  Everybody  went  back  to  their 
work,  and  in  the  course  of  the  day  it  leaked  out  that  the  whole  scare 
originated  with  a nervous  old  couple,  whp  were  surprised  at  milking- 
time by  the  advent  of  a band  of  horses.  Never  stopping  to  see  that 
they  were  unsaddled,  and  driven  by  only  a Mexican  boy  or  two,  they 
leaped  into  their  wagon  and  rushed  off  to  tell  Denver  that  three  thou- 
sand Arapahoes  were  ready  to  cut  its  throat. 


DENVER  REDIVIVUS. 


IT 


The  outcome  of  all  this  excitement  was  the  proclamation  of  mar- 
tial law,  and  the  sudden  organization  of  a regiment  for  Indian  fighting. 
The  “ Sand  Creek”  campaign  followed,  and  secured  instant  peace  to  the 
harassed  settlers  and  miners,  over  whose  heads  the  tomahawk  had 
been  suspended  for  months. 

The  flood,  or  the  Indian  scares,  lost  to  West  Denver  its  pre-emi- 
nence, and  business  moved  to  the  east  side,  building  up  Blake,  Holliday, 
Larimer,  and  Fifteenth  streets.  Its  expansion  has  been  eastward  and 
northward  ever  since.  When,  in  1874,  our  expedition  was  fitting  out, 
the  city  itself  was  too  well  built  up,  and  the  environs  either  too  un- 
suitable or  too  expensive  to  afford  space  for  the  rendezvous  camp ; ac- 
cordingly, it  was  fixed  in  a grove  of  cottonwoods,  six  miles  from  town, 
on  Clear  creek.  There  the  tents  were  set  up,  all  the  baggage  and 
stores  distributed  among  the  various  divisions,  the  new  hands  given 
their  first  taste  of  roughing  it,  and  the  animals  brought  together  and 
prepared  for  the  campaign. 


18 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


III. 

It  goes  without  saying  that,  in  making  original  explorations  through 
so  lofty  and  broken  a region  as  is  comprised  in  the  term  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, wheeled  vehicles  are  out  of  the  question.  Before  they  can  be 
used  to  any  extent  roads  must  be  laboriously  built ; and  it  was  one  ob- 
ject of  the  Surveys  to  discover  the  most  practicable  routes  for  these 
prospective  highways.  Explorers,  meanwhile,  had  to  trudge  afoot  or 
take  to  the  saddle. 

The  Survey,  during  its  many  successive  years  of  service,  acquired  a 
large  herd  of  animals,  which  were  kept  from  season  to  season,  whenever 
worth  it.  The  labor  required  was  severe,  and  a superior  grade  of  stock 
was  needed.  The  great  majority  of  these  animals  were  mules,  for  their 
endurance  is  greater  than  that  of  horses,  and  their  size  and  build  are 
better  suited  for  bearing  burdens.  This  is  so  well  understood  by  all 
mountaineers  that,  whereas  you  can  buy  a fair  pack-pony  for  fifty  dol- 
lars, or  less,  you  must  pay  three  times  that  amount  for  a good  mule. 

The  rendezvous  camp  having  been  organized,  the  laboring-men  hired 
(usually  the  same  muleteers,  year  after  year),  and  the  stores  collected, 
the  first  thing  done  is  to  distribute  the  live  stock.  Herewith  begin 
both  the  fun  and  the  peril  of  the  expedition. 

The  herd  of  a hundred  or  more  animals,  that  have  been  ranging  the 
open  plains  in  the  wildest  license  all  winter,  have  just  been  “ rounded 
up,”  and  are  at  last  penned  in  a corral  by  themselves.  The  head  packer 
now  looks  them  over  as  they  go  careering  round  the  confined  space, 
and  selects  the  quota  of  each  division  of  the  Survey.  Some  will  require 
to  be  re-shod  ; and  those  bravest  of  men,  the  frontier  blacksmiths,  who 
would  fearlessly  straddle  a thunder-bolt  if  it  needed  an  iron  tip,  un- 
hesitatingly do  the  job,  whether  the  mule  consents  or  not.  Then  the 
animals  go  back  to  the  corral  to  fight  and  play,  and  to  mature,  by  long 
consultations,  the  evil  designs  which  they  propose  to  execute  during 
the  coming  campaign.  ^ 

By  this  time  the  saddles  and  aparejos  (Californian  pack-saddles)  have 


CONDENSING  PERSONAL  LUGGAGE. 


19 


been  repaired  and  distributed,  the  stores  divided,  and,  as  far  as  possible, 
stowed  in  bags,  in  order  to  be  most  conveniently  lashed  upon  the  mules’ 
backs ; and  each  man  has  studied  how  to  bestow  his  bedding  and  small 
personal  outfit  most  compactly.  In  place  of  trunks  or  valises  every- 
thing is  stuffed  into  canvas  cylinders,  each  about  the  size  of  a section  of 
stove-pipe,  which  close  by  means  of  puckering-strings  at  the  top.  Near- 
ly everything  that  each  one  carries  must  be  enclosed  in  this  one  war- 
bag;  but,  for  the  few  fragile  and  shapely  articles  needful,  a pair  of  pan- 
ier-boxes  is  given  to  each  party.  My  writing-kit  I stuffed  into  a small, 


STUFFING  THE  WAR-BAG. 


soft  travelling-bag,  the  last  time  I was  out,  and  it  carried  very  well.  Of 
course  such  arrangements  preclude  ‘‘boiled  shirts”  or  starched  goods 
of  any  sort.  Your  war-bag,  like  everything  else,  will  be  placed  in  that 
part  of  a mule’s  load  where  it  will  ride  best,  and  the  utmost  strength  of 
two  men  will  be  expended  in  drawing  the  lash-ropes  tightly  across  it. 
Anything  more  linen  than  a handkerchief  or  whiter  than  an  under-shirt 
is,  therefore,  treated  with  scorn  and  derision  in  camp,  and  old  trousers 


20 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


and  coats,  heavy  flannel  shirts,  coarse  shoes,  and  broad-brimmed  felt 
hats  are  the  mode. 

Finally  comes  the  gala-day,  when  the  mules  are  to  be  saddled  for  the 
first  time  after  their  long  vacation,  and  everybody  is  on  hand  to  see  the 
fun. 

The  Western  pack-mule  is  small,  sinewy,  and,  like  old  Joey  Bagstock, 
“ tough,  sir,  tough  ! but  de-e-vlish  sly !”  Most  of  them  are  bred  from 
Indian  ponies,  and  are  born  on  the  open  plains.  Having  previously 
been  lassoed  and  branded,  when  three  years  old  they  are  driven  (or  in- 
veigled) into  a corral,  and  exhibited  for  sale  as  bronchos.  An  untamed 
horse  is  a model  of  gentleness  beside  them.  Sometimes  they  are  accus- 
tomed at  once  to  the  saddle  by  one  of  those  wonderful  riders  who  can 
stick  on  the  back  of  anything  that  runs,  and  more  rarely  they  are  bro- 
ken to  harness  ; but  ordinarily  their  backs  are  trained  to  bear  the  pack, 
which  is  generally  the  only  practicable  method  of  transporting  freight 
through  these  rugged  m.ountains. 

The  first  time  the  pack-saddles  are  put  on  the  excitement  may  be 
imagined.  The  green  mule,  strong  in  his  youth,  having  been  adroitly 
“ roped,”  or  lassoed,  is  led  out  into  an  open  space,  stepping  timidly  but 
quietly,  not  seeing  any  cause  for  alarm.  Before  he  understands  what  it 
all  means  he  finds  that  a noose  of  the  rawhide  lariat  about  his  neck  has 
been  slipped  over  his  nose,  and  discovers  that  his  tormentors  have  an 
advantage.  He  pulls,  shakes  his  head,  stands  upright  on  opposite  ends, 
but  all  to  no  avail.  The  harder  he  pulls  the  tighter  the  noose  pinches 
his  nostrils ; so  at  last  he  comes  down  and  keeps  still.  Then  a man  ap- 
proaches slowly  and  circumspectly,  holding  behind  him  a leathern  blind- 
er, which  he  seeks  to  slip  over  the  mule’s  eyes.  But  two  long  ears  stand 
in  the  way,  and  the  first  touch  of  the  leather  is  the  signal  for  two  fran- 
tic jumps — one  by  the  beast  and  one  by  the  man,  for  packers  are  wise 
enough  in  their  day  and  generation  to  fight  shy  of  the  business- end 
of  a mule.  The  next  attempt  is  less  a matter  of  caution  and  more  of 
strength  ; and  here  the  animal  has  so  much  the  advantage,  that  often  it 
must  be  lassoed  again  and  thrown  to  the  ground. 

It  is  a fine  sight  to  witness  the  indignation  of  such  a fellow!  He 
falls  heavily,  yet  holds  his  head  high,  and  essays  to  rise;  but  his  fore- 
feet are  manacled  by  ropes,  and  his  head  is  fast.  Yet  he  will  shake 
almost  free,  get  upon  his  hind  feet,  stand  straight  up,  and  dash  down 
with  all  his  weight  in  futile  efforts  for  liberty.  Secured  with  more 
ropes,  allowed  but  three  legs  to  stand  upon,  and  cursed  frightfully,  he 
must  submit,  though  he  never  does  it  with  good  grace.  It  is  not  always, 


THE  KICK  OF  THE  “ MULO  BRONCHO. 


21 


however,  that  this  extremity  is  resorted  to.  Some  animals  make  little 
resistance  while  the  strange  thing  is  being  put  upon  their  backs  and  the 
fastenings  adjusted — all  but  one.  When  an  effort  is  made  to  put  that 
institution  called  a crupper  under  a young  mule’s  tail  language  fails  to 
describe  the  magnificence  of  the  kicking!  The  light  heels  describe  an 
arc  from  the  ground  to  ten  feet  above  it,  and  then  strike  out  at  a tan- 
gent. They  cut  through  the  air  like  whip-lashes,  and  would  penetrate 
an  impediment  like  bullets.  But  even  mule-flesh  tires.  Strategy  wins. 
The  crupper  is  gained,  and  the  first  hard  pull  made  upon  the  cincha  (as 
the  girth  is  termed),  which  holds  firmly  every  hair-breadth,  and  finally 
will  crease  the  contour  of  the  mule’s  belly  into  a semblance  to  Cupid’s 


SUBMISSION  TO  THE  APAREJO. 


bow.  But  this  one  pull  sufflces  to  set  him  springing  again — buckfng, 
now,  with  arched  back  and  head  between  his  knees,  landing  on  stiff 
legs  to  jar  his  burden  off,  or  falling  full  weight  on  his  side  and  rolling 
over,  to  scrape  it  free.  He  will  sit  on  his  haunches  and  hurl  himself 
backward;  duck  his  head  and  turn  a somersault;  finally  will  stand 
still,  trembling  with  anger  and  exhaustion,  and  let  you  lead  him  away, 


22 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


conquered.  So  much  is  enough  for  one  day;  having  fitted  the  aparejo, 
the  putting  on  of  the  burden  will  come  easier. 

Let  me  turn  now  to  the  matter  of  supplies — shelter,  bedding,  food, 
and  arms — which  were  accumulated  at  the  rendezvous  camp. 

Those  old  heroes  who  made  a beginning  of  exploration  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  nearly  a century  ago,  as  trappers  and  hunters  for  the  fur 
companies,  would  have  thought  themselves  in  Paradise  could  they  have 
seen  our  stores  in  1874;  but  a casual  reader  may  not  be  moved  by  any 
such  envious  feeling.  The  trappers  used  to  make  their  head-quarters 
mainly  at  Fort  Benton,  at  the  head  of  navigation  on  the  Upper  Mis- 
souri. Everything  civilized  had  to  be  taken  twenty-five  hundred  miles 
up  the  river  from  St.  Louis  in  batteaux ; and  for  the  last  five  hundred 
miles  these  heavy  boats  must  be  hauled  mainly  by  men,  who  walked 
along  the  shore  with  ropes  over  their  shoulders.  The  value  of  the  car- 
goes by  the  time  the  three  months’  voyage  was  completed  may  be  im- 
agined. Flour  was  unheard  of  at  Fort  Benton,  sugar  was  a wild  extrav- 
agance, and  tea  and  coffee  were  only  fit  for  the  nabobs  who  conducted 
the  business  of  the  post.  The  journey  was  too  frightfully  long  and 
difficult  to  admit  of  many  articles  of  food  being  transported,  since  all 
available  space  in  the  overladen  mackinaws  needed  to  be  reserved  for 
the  indispensable  whiskey. 

Going  out  into  the  woods  for  a tour  of  lonely  trapping,  lasting  four, 
five,  or  six  months,  and  extending  hundreds  of  miles  beyond  even  this 
extreme  outpost  of  civilization,  these  half-savages  took  nothing  in  the 
way  of  food  except  a little  salt  and  pepper,  and  perhaps  a trifle  of  tea, 
as  an  occasional  indulgence.  An  iron  skillet  and  a tin  cup  comprised 
their  only  furniture  ; if  they  needed  anything  more  they  made  it  out 
of  poplar-bark  or  soapstone.  For  months  together  these  men  would 
live  wholly  on  the  flesh  their  guns  brought  them,  varying  this  diet  now 
and  then  with  berries,  sweet  roots,  or  a pungent  decoction  of  sage-leaves 
and  the  bark  of  the  red  willow  or  other  plants  that  would  serve  the 
purpose  of  tea.  The  red  willow  bark,  mixed  with  kinnikinnic,  made  very 
good  smoking,  too,  after  the  trapper’s  tobacco  was  exhausted.  It  often 
happened  in  the  northern  mountains  (where  little  alkali  occurs)  that  a 
trapper  would  even  have  no  salt  for  his  meat ; but  in  this  he  fared  no 
worse  than  the  Indians,  who,  indeed,  have  to  acquire  a taste  for  it. 
“ White  men  big  fools,”  they  say ; “ want  fresh  meat,  fresh  meat,  all  time 
— then  put  heap  salt  on  it !”  The  history  of  these  trappers  adds  to  the 
record  of  human  endurance  and  abstinence;  but  we  had  no  desire  to 
imitate  them,  though  in  the  earlier  years  of  the  government  expeditions 


THE  CAMP  COOK  CONSIDERED. 


23 


the  fare  was  primitive  and  scanty  enough  wherever  game  proved  scarce. 
Latterly  we  lived  better,  and  finally  even  attained  to  four-tined  forks ! 

Dr.  Hayden’s  survey  was  divided  into  several  working  divisions  of 
five  to  seven  persons,  each  of  which  had  a cook,  and  spent  the  season 
in  a field  of  work  by  itself.  Whether  or  not  one  thinks  these  cooks 
had  a hard  time  of  it  depends  upon  the  point  of  view.  It  seems  to  me 
they  had,  because  they  had  to  rise  at  an  unearthly  hour  in  the  morn- 
ing ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  were  not  obliged  to  climb  snowy  and 
back-breaking  peaks,  and  half  freeze  on  their  gale-swept  summits  in 
“ taking  observations,”  nor  to  chase  a lot  of  frantic  mules  and  horses 
that  chose  to  be  ugly  about  being  caught  up.  However,  upon  a fairly 
satisfactory  cook  depends  a large  portion  of  your  good  time. 

The  camp  cook  presents  himself  in  various  characters.  There  are 
not  many  colored  men  in  the  West  in  this  capacity,  and  few  French- 
men ; but  many  Americans  have  picked  up  the  necessary  knowledge  by 
hard  experience,  not  one  of  whom,  perhaps,  regards  it  as  a “ profession,” 
or  anything  better  than  a makeshift. 

It  is  considered  by  the  ordinary  mountaineer  as  a rather  inferior 
occupation,  and,  as  a rule,  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  inferior  men,  who  have 
tried  and  failed  in  more  energetic,  muscular,  and  profitable  pursuits. 
Of  course  there  are  exceptions,  but,  as  a rule,  they  are  men  who  are  not 
even  up  to  the  level  of  picturesque  interest,  and  are  worthy  of  small  re- 
gard from  the  observer,  unless  he  is  hungry.  We  are  hungry — therefore 
we  pursue  the  subject. 

Roads  being  non-existent,  and  it  often  being  necessary  to  go  boldly 
across  the  country,  without  regard  for  even  Indian  trails,  the  cuisine^ 
like  everything  else,  had  to  accommodate  itself  to  the  backs  of  the 
sturdy  mules,  on  whose  steady  endurance  depended  nearly  all  hope  of 
success.  The  conditions  to  be  met  by  kitchen  and  larder  were  : ability 
to  be  stowed  together  in  packages  of  small  size,  convenient  shape,  and 
sufficient  strength  to  withstand  without  injury  the  severest  strain  of 
the  lash-ropes,  and  the  forty  or  more  accidents  liable  to  happen  in  the 
course  of  a thousand  miles  of  rough  mountain  travel.  The  only  sort  of 
package  that  will  meet  these  requirements  is  the  bag.  When  it  is  full 
it  is  of  that  elongated  and  rounded  shape  which  will  lie  well  in  the  bur- 
den; as  fast  as  it  is  emptied  space  is  utilized  and  the  weight  remains 
manageable.  In  bags,  then,  were  packed  all  the  raw  material,  except 
the  few  condiments  in  bottles  and  flasks,  for  which,  with  other  fragile 
things,  a pair  of  panniers  was  provided.  Even  the  few  articles  of  iron- 
ware permitted  to  the  camp  cook  were  tied  up  in  a gunny-sack. 


24 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


IV. 

Let  me  omit  the  rough  methods  and  vexatious  delays  of  the  first 
morning’s  setting  out.  Let  me  simply  suppose  the  party  fairly  away, 
beginning  its  summer  campaign  ; and  let  us  leave  for  the  later  expe- 
riences of  actual  m.ountaineering  the  details  and  routine  of  daily  life, 
when  the  animals  have  quieted  down,  and  we  have  hardened  to  a com- 
mendable regularity  of  work.  Starting  from  near  Denver,  it  is  a day’s 
march  to  the  foot-hills,  and,  for  the  beginning,  a long  march,  as  you  find 
at  the  end,  somewhat  to  your  surprise  if  you  are  an  eager  novice. 

The  smooth,  level  plains,  rising  almost  imperceptibly  to  the  black 
wall  of  the  forest-clad  foot-hills,  are  covered  with  short,  bunchy  buffalo- 
grass,  already  (though  in  May)  grown  se.re ; and  the  wagon-track  you 
follow  dips  and  rises  over  greenish  gray  ridges  in  monotonous  succes- 
sion. There  is  little  to  charm  the  eye,  save  the  gleaming  peaks  uplifted 
ahead — the  glorious  beacons  for  our  progress.  In  spring  the  weather  is 
likely  to  be  misty,  so  that  the  mountains  do  not  stand  out  with  as  sharp 
and  definite  outline  as  they  will  later  in  the  season  ; but  the  more  prom- 
inent heights  are  very  plain  a hundred  miles  away.  Long’s  Peak  shows 
all  his  gigantic  proportions,  everywhere  mantled  in  snow ; and  in  clear 
moments  I can  catch  sight  of  the  silvery  crests  of  snow-covered  moun- 
tains behind,  away  in  the  interior  of  the  Snowy  Range. 

Rising  abruptly  from  the  plains,  standing  in  orderly  array,  north  and 
south,  the  peaks  crowd  together  and  tower  up  among  the  storm-clouds 
that  drift  past  them,  until,  as  you  watch,  it  is  the  mountain  peaks  which 
seem  to  be  moving,  cutting  the  clouds  asunder  and  dashing  the  flurries 
of  snow  from  their  fronts,  as  ships  before  a gale  part  the  white  spray  of 
the  waves.  This  grandeur  of  the  tremendous  contest  of  the  elements 
among  the  serried  ridges  is  better  witnessed  in  this  season  of  thunder- 
storms, when  winter  disputes  every  step  of  summer’s  advance,  than  at 
any  other  time.  The  mountains  are  still  piled  high  with  snow,  only  the 
black  crests  of  the  cliffs  streaking  their  white  cones.  And  while  you 
are  watching  the  pure  gleam  of  the  snow,  or  the  rosy  play  of  sunlight 


LESSONS  OF  THE  FIRST  DAY’S  MARCH. 


25 


upon  it,  an  indigo  cloud,  dense  and  square-fronted  with  rain,  will  march 
up  from  the  valley  at  one  side,  cutting  off  all  the  rest  of  the  landscape, 
while  a similar  phalanx  will  sweep  up  on  the  left  hand,  hiding  the 
other  mountains  behind  its  black  veil,  and  together  they  will  assault  the 
mountain  whose  white  and  lofty  head  stands  out  between  them  firm 
and  clear  against  the  angry  sky.  But  as  the  storms  strike  the  mon- 
arch’s flank  and  climb  his  sides  and  close  about  his  base,  sounding  the 
long-roll  in  their  thunder  and  hurling  the  bolts  of  their  lightning,  the 
dense  blue-black  of  the  rain  is  changed  to  the  misty  white  of  snow, 
the  darkness  gradually  vanishes,  the  ammunition  of  the  lightning  is  ex- 
hausted, and  the  mountain  emerges  from  the  battle  whiter  than  ever 
with  fleecy  trophies  of  victory ; while  triumphant  banners  of  crimson 
and  gold  are  hung  upon  the  clouds  so  blackly  defiant  a moment  ago. 

Beyond  some  grand  exhibition  like  this,  the  pranks  of  a few  ill- 
packed  mules,  or  the  early  vagaries  of  the  beast  you  ride,  there  will  be 
little  to  amuse  you.  This  first  day,  indeed,  is  likely  to  be  tiresome  and 
unsatisfactory.  You  have  not  become  accustomed  to  your  mule,  nor 
he  to  you.  You  are  sunburnt,  your  eyes  smart  with  the  hot  alkali 
dust — for  the  cool  mountains  are  not  yet  reached — and  your  muscles 
ache  with  the  unwonted  labor  of  riding.  If  it  happens  to  have  been 
wholly  in  the  wilderness,  you  have  got  along  without  much  trouble, 
perhaps ; but  if  your  road  has  led  you  through  the  miserable  outskirts 
of  civilization,  you  have  been  gazed  at  in  an  annoying  way,  and  chaffed 
on  your  ‘‘  green  ” appearance.  The  mules  have  exerted  themselves  to 
enter  every  gate  and  door-way,  to  go  anywhere  and  everywhere  but 
where  they  ought ; and  the  amount  of  caution,  invective,  and  hard- 
riding  necessary  to  keep  them  together  and  under  their  respective 
packs  has  been  vexatious  and  fatiguing,  conducive  neither  to  observa- 
tion of  scenery  nor  to  the  cultivation  of  Christian  virtues. 

Indeed,  on  this  initial  trip,  you  get  some  new  ideas  on  the  subject 
of  mountain  mules.  You  learn,  for  instance,  that  they  love  company, 
cling  together,  and  enjoy  walking  one  behind  the  other  in  long  file ; but 
no  mule  has  independence  of  judgment  enough  to  lead  a train,  even 
with  a bit  in  his  mouth.  On  the  other  hand,  all  mules  are  stuck 
after”  a horse,  as  the  muleteers  phrase  it,  and  advantage  is  taken  of 
this  to  cause  them  to  travel  steadily,  and  to  keep  them  together  at 
night,  by  having  a horse  to  lead  the  march.  The  horse  has  a stock-bell 
round  its  neck,  and  is  ridden  by  the  cook,  who  is  thus  debarred  from 
anything  except  steadily  plodding  along ; while  the  others  can  ramble 
off  from  the  train  as  much  as  they  please.  At  night  the  bell-horse  is 

3 


26 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


hobbled,  and  all  the  mules  are  turned  loose  to  graze  about  the  neigh- 
borhood, the  tinkle  of  the  bell  giving  us  information  of  their  position  in 
the  morning  ; for  there  is  little  fear  that  they  will  wander  away  from  the 
horse,  unless  stampeded,  and  that  rarely  occurs.  Mules  will  go  absolute- 
ly daft  over  a horse,  and  there  are  always  fierce  contests  between  the 
animals  on  the  first  day  a train  starts  out  as  to  which  shall  have  the 
coveted  place  next  to  the  leader.  It  often  happens  that  for  weeks  af- 
terward the  victor  has  to  maintain  his  position  by  constant  exercise  of 
heels  and  teeth,  and  with  much  mulish  profanity.  I have  seen  two 
mules  fight  so  incessantly  for  the  place  next  the  bell-horse,  when  feed- 
ing, that  they  forgot  to  eat  all  day. 

This  quarrelling  among  the  animals,  and  the  continual  loosening  of 
their  burdens,  due  to  the  fulness  of  their  bellies,  the  stiffness  of  the 


FIRST  STAGE. — ADJUSTING  THE  PACK. 


new  lash-ropes,  and  the  weight  of  the  loads,  make  frequent  stops  nec- 
essary, and  more  than  one  chase  occurs  after  a panic-stricken  runaway, 
which  must  be  caught  and  repacked,  while  the  remainder  wait  most 
restlessly. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  DIAMOND-HITCH. 


27 


SECOND  STAGE. — “MODERATE  PULLING.” 


Here  let  me  say  a word  about  the  art  of  ‘‘packing.”  Years  ago 
everybody  used  the  old  Mexican  saw-buck  saddle,  and  it  still  bestrides 
the  lacerated  spines  of  unfortunate  burros ; but  generally  it  has  yielded 
place  to  the  Californian  stuffed  aparejo,  the  shape  of  which  is  seen  very 
well  in  the  cut  on  page 
19.  This  is  fastened  firm- 
ly to  the  long-suffering 
beast  by  all  the  strength 
of  two  men,  who  tighten 
the  girth  by  bracing  their 
feet  against  the  upright 
mule’s  ribs.  Then  a long 
lash-rope,  having  a broad, 
strong  girth  at  one  end 
terminating  in  a wooden 
hook,  is  thrown  across 
the  aparejo,  and  the  pack- 
ing begins.  The  burdens 
are  laid  on  so  as  to  bal- 
ance properly,  and  are  held  in  place  until  all,  or  the  main  part,  is  in 
position.  Then  the  ends  of  the  lash-rope  are  handed  back  and  forth 
by  the  man  on  each  side,  twisted  and  looped  loosely  in  a way  very 

dexterous  but  utterly  indescriba- 
ble, and  finally,  by  moderate  pull- 
ing, the  whole  net-work  is  tight- 
ened. The  load  is  now  criticised 
and  balanced  anew,  small  articles 
are  tucked  in,  and  it  is  pro- 
nounced ready.  One  man  goes 
to  the  left  side  of  the  animal  and 
seizes  a portion  of  the  rope  which 
passes  round  the  hook,  while  the 
other,  on  the  opposite  side,  turns 
his  back  and  passes  the  end  of  the 
lash-rope  over  his  shoulder,  so  as 
to  give  him  the  greatest  possible 
pulling  power.  This  done,  he  calls  back  to  his  invisible  mate, 

“All  set?” 

“ All  set.” 

“ Give  it  to  her !” 


THIRD  STAGE. — “GIVE  IT  TO  HER  !” 


28 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


Then  results  a sudden  and  mighty  strain  in  concert,  a dreadful 
groan  escapes  from  the  poor  mule,  there  is  a stifled  sound  of  creaking 
and  crushing,  and  in  an  instant  more  the  fastening  is  made  and  the 
work  is  done.  This  lashing  is  all  one  rope,  but  it  is  crossed  and  en- 
twined till  it  seems  half  a dozen.  On  the  top  of  the  load  it  forms  a 
rectangular  or  diamond-shaped  space,  which  gives  the  process  its  name 
among  the  packers.  To  know  how  to  do  it  is  a passport  to  mountain 
society,  and  establishes  your  credit.  I remember  once  being  alone  at  a 
stage  station  in  Wyoming.  I wore  a partially  civilized  coat  and  hat, 
and  hence  was  under  suspicion  among  the  party  of  men  assembled. 
Foolishly  venturing  an  opinion  upon  some  subject,  I was  judged  by 
the  clothes  I wore,  and  promptly  snubbed. 

‘‘What  right  have  jw  to  know  anything  about  it?”  a big  Klamath 
man  hurled  at  me.  “You’re  a tender-foot !” 

“Perhaps  I am,”  I answered,  meekly;  “but  I can  put  the  diamond- 
hitch  on  a mule.” 

“ Can  you  do  that  ? Then,  sir,  you  are  entitled  to  any  opinion  you 
please  in  this  ’ere  court !” 

Even  this  lashing  will  not  always  hold  firm,  however,  against  equi- 
asinine  contortions ; but  it  is  incomparably  superior,  both  for  the  wel- 
fare of  the  mule  and  the  safety  of  the  burden,  to  the  antiquated  and 
cruel  saw-buck. 

A day  of  such  rough  experiences  is  only  wearisome,  and  at  night, 
very  likely,  you  curse  your  folly  in  having  come  out,  and  find  that  the 
first  irregular  camp  in  the  foot-hills  is  not  worth  description. 

Divide  Colorado  into  nearly  equal  east  and  west  halves,  and  you  will 
have  two  districts  of  entirely  different  physical  characteristics,  that  on 
the  east  being  the  edge  of  the  broad  plains  stretching  away  to  the  Mis- 
souri river;  while  the  western  half  rises  abruptly  into  piles  and  ranges 
of  great  mountains,  which,  intersected  by  frightful  canons,  and  em- 
bracing some  extensive  table-lands,  cover  the  whole  to  the  borders  of 
the  State  and  beyond,  exhibiting  the  most  startling  development  in  the 
great  uplifts  where  the  Rio  Colorado  takes  its  rise.  This  great  moun- 
tainous system  was  the  terra  incognita  which  the  Surveys  opened  to  the 
light,  and  the  foot-hills  are  its  outposts. 

Leaving  Denver,  which  is  situated  on  soft  sandstones  and  marls  (at 
the  base  of  which  formation  occur  the  extensive  coal-beds  of  Colorado), 
you  pass  over  “ hog-backs  ” of  upturned  rocks,  running  in  a north-and- 
south  direction,  at  the  base  of  the  foot-hills.  In  these  you  find  the 
edges  of  all  the  upturned  series  of  underlying  sedimentary  rocks,  till 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  RANGE. 


29 


you  reach  the  deep,  crystalline  rocks  of  the  mountains  themselves. 
Among  the  oldest  of  these  strata  that  have  been  set  upon  edge  by  the 
upheavals  that  elevated  the  range  are  the  triassic  “ red -beds,”  whose 
thin  vertical  walls  stand,  with  grandeur  so  theatrical,  at  the  gates  of  the 
Garden  of  the  Gods  — fit  portals  to  that  geological  play-ground.  The 
coal  from  the  base  of  the  mountains  comes  from  the  beds  of  this  hori- 
zon. At  Golden — now  a thriving  manufacturing  and  railway  town — 
you  observe  a noticeable  peculiarity  in  the  geology,  for  it  is  the  only 
place  east  of  the  mountains  where  basaltic  lava  occurs.  Here,  too,  one 
gets  a good  idea  of  the  amount  of  erosion  that  has  taken  place.  The 
top  of  Castle  Rock,  a bluff  six  hundred  feet  high,  close  to  the  town,  was 
once  the  bed  of  a valley ! Going  up  Berthoud  Pass,  you  soon  get  away 
from  all  the  sedimentary  rocks,  and  advance  through  an  immense  thick- 
ness of  metamorphosed  pre- Silurian  schists,  gneisses,  granites,  etc., 
among  which  occur  the  lodes  of  gold  and  silver.  This  was  the  route 
of  my  first  entrance  to  the  mountains.  Now  a good  wagon-road  goes 
across,  and  there  is  even  talk  of  a railway;  but  at  first  a mere  muddy 
and  rough  path  traced  the  little-frequented  course  to  Middle  Park. 

The  hills  grow  more  and  more  precipitous  as  you  near  the  moun- 
tains, the  higher  ones  being  crowned  with  fantastic  pinnacles  of  shat- 
tered rocks,  or  showing  a bold  escarpment  of  granite  along  the  crest  of 
a ridge.  The  slopes  of  the  distant  hills  are  thickly  clothed  with  resin- 
ous woods  as  far  up  as  timber  grows — that  is,  10,500  to  11,500  feet — 
and  the  watercourses  are  marked  by  the  lighter  foliage  of  a species  of 
aspen,  with  occasional  currant  and  gooseberry  bushes ; but  close  to  the 
road  the  trees  have  been  cut  down  and  converted  into  firewood  for  the 
mines,  piles  of  which  you  pass  along  the  way.  This  stripping  of  the 
hills,  and  the  familiar  marks  of  the  axe,  detract  from  the  wildness  while 
enhancing  the  desolation  of  the  scene.  I do  not  remember  to  have  no- 
ticed anything,  so  far,  which  was  picturesque  or  pretty,  except  certain 
night  effects  in  camp,  which,  rather,  are  weird.  It  is  all  on  so  large  and 
grand  a scale  as  to  produce  less  immediate  satisfaction  and  pleasure 
than  one  probably  would  derive  from  a week’s  trip  among  the  Cats- 
kills or  Adirondacks ; but  there  is  a breadth,  and  height,  and  depth  to 
a day’s  experience  among  these  silent,  sky-piercing  peaks  that  you  can- 
not take  in  at  once,  but  must  make  an  effort  after,  and  grow  to  the  ap- 
preciation of,  through  a lifetime.  For  example,  approaching  Black 
Hawk  we  descended  two  thousand  feet  in  one  hill.  From  the  top  of 
this  hill,  itself  a depression  among  foot-hills,  I could  take  in  at  a glance 
the  icy  summits  of  Evans,  James,  Gray  and  Torrey,  Chief  and  Squaw, 


30 


KNOCKING  'ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


Arapahoe,  and  a dozen  other  peaks,  named  and  nameless,  whose  sepa- 
rating valleys  were  two  miles  above  the  sea.  In  the  majestic  calm  of 
that  presence  all  else  dwindled  ; yet  I heard  a man  swear  in  hot  anger 
because,  forsooth,  a strap  had  loosened  ! It  seemed  more  than  profanity. 

Much  of  our  way  after  this  lay  down  the  side  of  a long  range,  every- 
where punched  with  the  “prospect-holes’'  and  tunnels  of  gold-diggers, 
into  the  deep  valley  of  Idaho  Springs,  a hot  watering-place,  where,  not- 
withstanding my  exaltation  over  the  mountains,  I was  glad  to  pay  a 
dime  for  a glass  of  poor  lager.  We  camped  for  the  night  quite  near  the 
village ; and  whereas  we  had  before  been  set  down  as  a prospecting 
party,  and  afterward  chaffed  by  the  small  boys  of  Central  City  as  fisher- 
men, here  in  Idaho  we  were  classed  with  a circus  company  which  was 
just  leaving  town.  Now  we  were  at  the  base  of  the  main  range,  and  our 
climb  really  began  ; but  it  was  easy  at  first,  for  we  followed  the  wagon- 
road  to  Georgetown  and  Empire  City. 

All  through  here  these  mining  camps  were  the  most  interesting  thing 
visible  to  us  new-comers.  The  miners  build  their  hasty  villages  in  the 
spots  least  likely  to  prove  valuable  for  mining  purposes ; yet  I have 
seen  many  places  where  they  would  dig  the  streets  and  yards  up,  leav- 
ing their  houses  perched  on  pillars,  or  would  tear  them  down  altogether, 
to  get  at  the  gold  in  the  heavy  soil  underneath.  All  the  hill-sides  are 
furrowed  with  ditches  bringing  water  to  the  mines  from  some  upland 
spring  ; or  pitted  with  holes  about  the  size  of  graves,  where  some  search- 
er has  tried  to  find  the  lode  that  should  make  his  fortune.  Far  and 
near  only  stumps  show  where  trees  once  stood,  and  the  fair  snowborn 
creeks  are  polluted  with  the  mud  of  “ tailings,”  or  diverted  from  their 
beds  to  feed  the  flumes. 

A Rocky  Mountain  mining  camp,  indeed,  is  about  the  newest  and 
roughest  place,  at  its  beginning,  to  be  found  in  the  world.  When  a suc- 
cessful “strike  ’ has  been  made,  no  matter  how  far  from  anywhere  it 
happens  to  be,  thither  rush  scores  and  hundreds  of  miners  and  other 
restless  money-makers,  and  every  one  houses  himself  as  best  he  can 
until  lumber  can  be  sawed  and  other  regular  building  materials  pre- 
pared. Some  dig  little  caves  in  the  hill-side,  roofing  them  over  in  front 
with  a sort  of  porch  and  door-way;  others  put  up  a framework  of  poles, 
and  stretch  their  tents  over  them,  laying  down  a floor  of  slabs,  and 
banking  up  the  sides  with  dirt ; some  haul  logs  and  construct  square 
cabins,  ten  or  twelve  logs  high,  roofed  with  poles  and  thatched  with 
mud,  which  soon  supports  a crop  of  weeds.  This  is  the  dwelling  of  an 
aristocrat ; yet  it  has  only  a rough  stone  fireplace,  continued  outside 


PICTURESQUE  PEOPLE. 


31 


into  a big  mud-and-stone  chimney,  surmounted  by  a corn-cob  structure 
of  fagots,  a headless  barrel,  or  an  old  powder-canister.  The  floor  is 
dirt,  the  door  a couple  of  slabs,  or  perhaps  only  a pendant  gunny-sack ; 
and  the  bed  a bunk  of  poles,  covered  with  hay  and  army  blankets.  On 
a shelf  above  the  small  window  stands  a row  of  empty  whiskey-bottles, 
and  some  bitters  and  liniment.  The  table,  chairs,  and  stools  are 
knocked  together  by  means  of  a few  nails  and  an  axe.  The  kitchen 
requisites  consist  of  copper  pails,  tin  cups,  and  iron  knives  and  forks; 
the  library  of  a pack  of  cards,  a copy  of  the  “ Mining  Code,”  and  per- 
haps a well-thumbed  copy  of  Bret  Harte’s  “ Luck  ” or  Mark  Twain’s 
“Roughing  It.”  I once  found  Byron’s  poems,  Dickens’s  “Nicholas 
Nickleby,”  Shakspeare’s  plays,  and  an  old  Harper  s Magazine^  as  the 
entire  library  of  a Colorado  camp. 

Such  a collection  of  flat-roofed,  wide-verandaed  log-houses  perched 
up  among  the  rocks  beside  a foaming  stream,  skewed  out  of  shape,  and 
devoid  of  any  color  or  appearance  of  civilization,  is  exceedingly  pictu- 
resque, reminding  one  of  a distant  view  of  Swiss  hamlets.  But  here 
there  is  little  green  in  the  landscape — only  the  dull  olive  of  the  sage- 
brush and  buffalo-grass,  and  dark-hued  rocks.  Perhaps  the  white  fence 
of  a sad  little  graveyard  in  a corner  of  the  picture  will  be  the  only  light 
in  it.  All  is  desolation. 

The  inhabitants  of  these  towns  were  a curious  lot — bearded  miners, 
dirty  laborers,  strong-armed  bull-whackers,  thin-lipped  gamblers,  men  of 
every  character,  and  women  of  no  character.  Sunday  is  unheard  of,  or 
devoted  to  the  dance-hall.  Clothes  wear  out,  and  are  superseded  by 
buckskin  jackets  and  breeches  made  of  army  blankets  ; while  the  women 
renew  their  “linen”  by  saving  the  flour-sacks,  labels  and  all.  I remem- 
ber, once  noticing  among  a lot  of  red  shirts  and  heterogeneous  textures 
hanging  on  a quaking-asp  pole  to  dry,  in  a Wyoming  mining  camp,  a 
garment  answering  the  purpose  of  a chemise  that  some  woman  had* 
made  out  of  two  flour-sacks.  On  one  side  was  printed,  in  large  blue 
letters,  “ Hard  to  Beat on  the  other  an  azure  legend,  “ Rough  and 
Ready.”  These  were  the  brands  of  the  mills.  Salt-bags,  being  stouter,, 
are  used  to  patch  trousers,  care  being  taken  to  have  the  grocer’s  adver- 
tisement outside.  One  week  such  a town  would  be  overflowing  with 
people,  and  money  in  plenty,  whiskey  triumphant,  contractors  busy, 
everybody  aflame  with  news  of  wonderful  gold  discoveries  near  by, 
and  excited  with  anticipations  of  marvellous  riches  and  a great  city  to 
spring  up  there  in  a night.  The  next  week  the  dazzling  “ finds  ” had 
proved  “ blind  leads,”  real  estate  had  fallen  one  hundred  per  cent.,  and 


32 


KNOCKING  'ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


everybody  was  selling  his  extra  boots  to  get  out  of  town,  leaving  the 
“city”  with  empty  houses,  a high-sounding  title  and  reminiscences — 
nothing  else.  There  are  dozens  of  towns  throughout  these  mountains, 
once  the  abode  of  hundreds  of  eager  people  and  the  scene  of  thriving 
business,  that  are  now  as  fully  given  to  the  moles  and  the  bats  as  Baby- 
lon was  ever  threatened  to  be.  They  were  once  graphically  described 
to  me,  by  one  who  knew  them  well,  as  “ towns  where  there  are  two 
or  three  whiskey-shops  and  a lot  of  dead-beats.”  It  was  a good  defi- 
nition. 

Such  a relic  was  the  town  of  Empire,  lying  on  our  road  to  Ber- 
thoud  Pass.  Now  it  has  become  a railway  station,  and  is  somewhat 
revived,  but  then  it  was  the  merest  ghost  of  a town.  There  were  houses 
and  stores  enough  — barns,  and  fences,  and  gardens;  Clear  creek  ex- 
panded into  a pond  above  the  strong  dam  that  supplied  ruined  mills 
yet  standing  on  its  banks,  but  the  people  had  departed.  Yet  its  decline 
had  been  less  rapid  than  its  rise,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  look  of 
hasty  construction  about  all  the  buildings,  mainly  unpainted  structures 
of  loose  boards  or  simple  log-cabins.  With  the  high  hope  of  a sudden 
great  city  which  animates  the  breasts  of  all  Western  men  “where  two 
or  three  are  gathered  together,”  the  town  seems  to  have  been  elabo- 
rately laid  out,  and  the  broad  streets  run  at  equal  intervals,  and  inter- 
sect at  right  angles  all  across  the  valley,  hemmed  in  by  precipitous  hills 
beyond  which  snow-capped  peaks  make  a horizon.  Ten  years  before, 
fifteen  hundred  people,  attracted  by  the  mines  which  were  discovered 
in  the  vicinity,  built  the  town  with  almost  magic  haste,  and  its  streets 
were  busy  with  congregated  men  and  women.  The  valley  was  a pleas- 
ant one,  the  mines  proved  productive,  the  trades  and  industries  to  sup- 
ply the  demands  of  this  population  were  just  established,  when  sud- 
denly new  mines  were  opened  at  Georgetown,  Buckskin  Joe,  Idaho 
Springs,  and  elsewhere,  and  almost  in  a day  the  miners  had  gone. 
Robbed  of  their  customers,  the  shops  were  quickly  closed  ; the  black- 
smiths, coopers,  and  carpenters  locked  up  their  tools,  to  begin  again  their 
nomadic  life;  and  the  school -house  (newly  built)  did  not  even  see 
the  benches  that  were  to  be  whittled  by  jack-knives  of  pupils  who  never 
came.  The  apothecary-shop  was  the  last  to  succumb,  but  even  that 
went  long  ago,  for  this  is  a healthy  country;  and  now  the  tavern,  which 
was  also  the  post-office,  was  the  only  public  place.  Half  a dozen  families 
comprised  the  entire  population,  and  these  all  lived  in  the  best  houses, 
as  though  they  had  taken  their  pick  of  the  abandoned  tenements.  Cav- 
ernous mansions  were  so  common  that  they  had  lost,  with  the  absence 


A NEW  ERA, 


33 


of  isolation  and  novelty,  the  fearfulness  which  hangs  about  empty  houses, 
and  the  few  children  played  in  them  with  unaffected  glee. 

These  are  pictures  of  a by-gone  time,  however;  and,  though  you  may 
find  plenty  of  ruins,  you  may  search  far  for  a similar  life  to  that  of  the 
old  camps.  Civilization  has  been  brought  too  near  by  railway  and  tele- 
graph and  a crowd  of  travellers,  to  make  possible  the  wild  scenes  which 
were  the  result  of  extreme  isolation  and  outlawry.  Yet  in  some  of  the 
new  and  distant  silver  camps,  even  now,  a brief  period  of  disorganized 
revelry  and  roughness  will  exist,  and  there  will  be  wickedness  and  ter- 
rorism enough  to  satisfy  the  most  sensational  appetite. 


34 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


V. 

After  leaving  Empire  we  began  the  real  ascent  of  the  mountain- 
pass,  properly  speaking. 

The  trail  led  upward  by  a gradual  ascent  along  the  sides  of  heavily- 
timbered  mountains,  with  almost  unattainable  heights  overhanging  on 
one  hand,  and  an  immense  depth  dropping  from  one’s  track  on  the  other. 
There  was  little  chance  for  extended  vision  till  the  higher  portions  were 
reached ; but  the  luxuriant  growth  of  mosses,  lichens,  and  ferns  under 
the  damp  pines,  and  lovely  flowers  and  grasses  along  the  path,  formed 
a contrast  to  the  sombre  massiveness  of  the  opposite  mountain  that  was 
never  wearisome.  At  one  point  the  ridge  of  the  other  mountain,  far 
above  timber-line,  was  hollowed  into  a great  amphitheatre,  opening  out- 
ward. From  this  a slender  stream  trickled  down  to  the  invisible  creek 
in  the  bottom  of  the  canon,  as  I could  trace  by  its  foam.  Like  all 
these  snow-torrents,  it  was  very  narrow,  and  flashed  out  from  the  dark 
background  of  pines  as  if  somehow  a zigzag  of  lightning  had  become 
fixed  there ; when,  farther  up,  I could  look  down  into  this  amphi- 
theatre, I saw  that  the  source  of  the  stream  was  a delta  of  brooklets 
from  a semicircle  of  snow-banks. 

On  the  way  I met  one  of  the  surveyors  of  the  new  wagon-road 
into  Middle  Park — an  old  man,  clad  in  homespun,  with  long,  gray  hair 
and  beard  setting  off  his  brown  face  and  sweeping  his  bent  shoulders. 
He  carried  a levelling-rod,  and  drove  before  him  a sedate  little  ass,  as 
homespun  and  grizzled  as  himself,  on  which  was  packed  his  small  roll 
of  butternut  blankets.  He  was  all  neutral  tint,  like  the  mountain,  but 
as  picturesque  as  one  of  its  weathered  bowlders. 

That  night  we  encamped  at  timber-line — always  the  pleasantest  of 
bivouacs — under  Parry  Peak,  named  after  Dr.  C.  C.  Parry,  the  botanist, 
whose  party  built  a monument  on  its  summit  some  years  ago.  It  is 
easily  climbed ; but  I chose  to  ascend  an  opposite  spur  in  the  gray 
of  the  long  evening,  and  here  I had  my  first  tramp  above  timber-line. 

We  were  so  near  the  limit  of  tree-growth  that  it  was  short  work  to 


ABOVE  TIMBER-LINE. 


35 


get  out  of  the  scattered  spruce-woods.  Then  came  some  stiff  climbing 
up  ledges  of  broken  rocks  standing  cliff-like  to  bar  the  way  to  the  sum- 
mit. These  surmounted,  the  remainder  was  easy;  for  from  the  north- 
east— the  side  I was  on — this  mountain,  and  nearly  all  others  visible, 
present  a smooth,  grassy  slope  to  the  very  top  ; but  the  western  side 
of  the  range  is  a series  of  rocky  precipices,  seamed  and  shattered  into 
chaos. 

Just  above  the  cliffs  grew  a number  of  dwarf  spruces,  some  of  them 
with  trunks  six  inches  or  more  through,  yet  lying  flat  along  the  ground, 
so  that  the  gnarled  and  wind-pressed  boughs  were  scarcely  knee-high. 
They  stood  so  close  together,  and  were  so  rigid,  that  I could  not  press 
between  them  ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  were  stiff  enough  to  bear 
my  weight,  so  that  I could  walk  over  their  tops  when  it  was  too  far  to 
go  around.  Two  or  three  species  of  small  brown  sparrows  lived  there, 
and  were  very  talkative.  The  sharp,  metallic  chirp  of  the  blue  snow- 
bird was  heard  also  as  it  flitted  about,  showing  white  feathers  on  either 
side  of  its  tail  in  scudding  from  one  sheltering  bush  to  another.  Doubt- 
less careful  search  would  have  discovered  its  home,  snugly  built  of  cir- 
cularly laid  grasses,  and  tucked  deeply  into  some  hollow  by  the  root  of 
a spruce.  There  would  be  young  at  this  season,  for  it  was  now  the 
beginning  of  July. 

Proceeding  upward  a few  hundred  feet  at  a slow  pace  — for  any 
exertion  quickly  exhausts  the  breath  at  this  great  altitude  — I came 
to  the  top,  and  stood  upon  the  verge  of  a crag  which  was  being 
rapidly  crumbled  by  water  and  frost.  Gaping  cracks  seamed  its  face, 
and  an  enormous  amount  of  fallen  rock  covered  a broad  slope  at 
its  foot. 

The  first  moment  I arrived  here  I heard  a most  lively  squeaking 
going  on,  apparently  just  under  the  edge  of  the  cliff  or  in  some  of 
the  cracks.  It  was  a strange  noise,  somewhere  between  a bark  and  a 
scream,  and  I could  think  of  nothing  but  young  hawks  as  the  authors 
of  it.  So  I set  to  work  to  And  the  nest,  but  my  search  was  vain,  while 
the  sharp  squeaking  seemed  to  multiply  and  to  come  from  a dozen  dif- 
ferent places.  By  this  time  I had  crawled  pretty  well  down  the  rough 
face  of  the  cliff,  and  had  reached  the  talus  of  broken  rock,  when  I 
caught  a glimpse  of  a little  head,  with  two  black  eyes,  like  a prairie- 
dog’s,  peering  out  of  a crevice,  and  was  just  in  time  to  see  him  open  his 
small  jaws  and  say  skink  ! about  as  a rusty  hinge  would  pronounce  it. 
I whipped  my  revolver  out  of  my  belt  and  fired,  but  the  little  fellow 
had  dodged  the  bullet  and  was  gone.  The  echoes  rattled  about  among 


36 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


the  rocks,  wandered  up  and  down  the  canon,  and  hammered  lustily 
at  half  a dozen  stone  walls  before  ceasing ; but  when  they  died  away 
not  a sound  was  to  be  heard.  Every  little  rascal  had  hidden  himself. 
So  I sat  down  and  waited.  In  about  five  minutes  a tiny,  timid  squeak 
broke  the  stillness ; then  a second,  a trifle  louder ; then  one  away  under 
my  feet,  in  some  subterranean  passage.  Hardly  daring  to  breathe,  I 
waited  and  watched.  Finally  the  chorus  was  as  loud  as  before,  and  I 
caught  sight  of  one  of  the  singers  only  about  ten  yards  away,  head  and 
shoulders  out  of  his  hole,  and  doubtless  commenting  to  his  neighbor  in 
no  complimentary  way  upon  the  strange  intruder.  Slowly  lifting  my 
pistol,  I fired.  I was  sure  he  had  not  seen  me;  yet  a chip  of  rock  flying 
from  where  he  had  stood  was  my  only  satisfaction  — he  had  dodged 
again. 

I had  seen  enough,  however,  to  know  that  the  noisy  colony  Avas  a 
community  of  conies,  or  Little  Chief  hares  {Lagomys  princeps),  as  they 
are  called  in  the  books.  They  live  wholly  at  or  above  timber-line,  bur- 
rowing among  the  fallen  and  decomposing  rocks  which  crown  the  sum- 
mits of  all  of  the  mountains.  Not  every  peak  by  any  means  possesses 
them  ; on  the  contrary,  they  are  rather  uncommon,  and  always  are  so 
difficult  to  shoot  that  their  skins  are  rare  in  museums,  and  their  ways 
little  known  to  naturalists.  During  the  middle  of  the  day  they  are 
asleep  and  quiet ; but  in  the  evening,  and  all  night,  when  the  moon 

shines,  they  leave  their  rocky  retreats  and  forage  in  the  neighboring 

meadows,  where  they  meet  the  yellow-footed  marmot  and  other  neigh- 
bors. About  the  only  enemies  they  have,  I fancy,  are  the  rattlesnake 
and  weasels,  except  when  a wild-cat  may  pounce  upon  one,  or  an  owl 
swoop  down  and  snatch  up  some  rambler.  In  midwinter,  of  course, 
their  burrows  are  deep -buried  in  snow;  but  then  they  neither  know 
nor  care  what  the  weather  is,  for  they  are  hibernating,  snugly  ensconced 
in  the  warm  bed  of  soft  grasses  and  downy  weeds  that  they  have 
thoughtfully  provided  against  this  very  contingency.  If  he  can  catch 
a cony,  an  Indian  will  eat  it ; he  likes  to  use  its  fur,  too,  to  braid  his 

locks;  but  the  lively  little  rodents  are  pretty  safe  from  human  foes — 

even  when  armed  with  Colt’s  revolver ! 

Although  it  was  getting  a trifle  dusky  I chose  to  explore  a new  way 
back  to  camp,  which  seemed  to  obviate  re-climbing  the  peak.  Follow- 
ing a stream  down  a quarter  of  a mile  or  so,  I found  I was  all  right,  but 
must  go  through  a bog  and  get  my  feet  wet — an  accident  of  too  little 
consequence  to  cause  much  hesitation. 

I did  not  have  such  an  easy  time  on  a subsequent  occasion,  when  we 


SPRUCE-TREE  LADDERS. 


37 


delayed  our  return*  to  camp  until  darkness  overtook  us — always  a dan- 
gerous risk.  This  happened  near  the  head-waters  of  the  Rio  Grande, 
where,  just  for  sport,  four  of  us  added  to  our  day’s  work  a postprandial 
climb  of  about  two  thousand  feet,  with  nothing  in  the  way  of  view  or 
novelty  at  the  end  of  it  as  reward — one  of  the  stiffest  climbs  I ever 
made,  too.  We  began  it  by  creeping  up  a narrow  defile  through  the 
vertical  escarpment  of  granite  and  basalt  which  hemmed  in  the  valley 
and  carried  the  mountain-top  on  its  shoulders.  Coming  down  the  dark- 
ness overtook  us,  and  we  had  to  trust  to  luck  to  find  the  stairway-like 
passage  through  the  cliff,  for  we  could  see  nothing,  and  of  course  there 
was  no  path.  Proceeding  cautiously  as  best  we  could,  the  margin  of 
the  crag — the  jumping-off  place — was  at  last  reached,  but  no  passage 
down  appeared.  Below  there,  half  a mile  away,  we  could  see  the  faint 
sparkle  of  our  camp-fire,  and  wish  for  our  blankets,  but  the  situation 
promised  little  hope  of  reaching  them  before  daylight  the  next  morn- 
ing. This  was  a hard  prospect,  for  even  an  August  night  is  freezing 
cold  when  you  are  without  fire  or  shelter  in  the  high  Rockies. 

Working  our  way  along  the  cliff,  however,  we  finally  came  to  a small 
chasm  in  its  face,  within  which  a spruce-tree  was  growing,  whose  top 
came  just  a little  above  the  surface  of  the  bluff.  The  tallest  of  trees 
would  reach  only  a fraction  of  the  way  down  ; but  where  this  was  root- 
ed there  might  be  a shelf  and  another  break  in  the  wall.  So  it  was 
decided  that  I,  being  the  lightest  and  most  nimble  of  the  party,  should 
go  down  this  tree  and  explore.  In  almost  pitch-darkness,  therefore, 
my  sense  of  feeling  my  only  guide,  I began  the  descent.  To  get  to 
the  lower  branches  was  easy;  then,  grasping  firmly  the  bulky  trunk,  I 
‘‘swarmed”  down  the  rough  shaft  for  perhaps  twenty  feet  before  I 
touched  the  ground  and  shouted  back,  “ So  far  so  good.”  There  was  a 
considerable  ledge  here,  which  creeping  along  I speedily  found  a way 
to  a second  lower  shelf,  whence  I could  dimly  see  that  by  scrambling 
down  the  smooth  trunk  of  a dead  pine,  which  had  fallen  against  the 
cliff,  we  could  reach  sloping  rocks,  and  thus  extricate  ourselves.  Making 
a trumpet  of  my  hands,  I howled  these  facts  up  to  my  companions,  and 
waited  until,  one  by  one,  they  had  all  descended.  Then,  with  a few 
broken  shins  and  barked  elbows,  we  made  our  way  safely  back  to  our 
somewhat  alarmed  cook  and  his  camp-fire,  deciding  not  to  try  moun- 
taineering at  night  again,  except  in  an  emergency. 

Here  in  the  wet  grass — to  return  to  my  bog  in  Berthoud’s  pass — 
the  beautiful  white-crowned  sparrows,  brothers  to  our  common  Eastern 
white-throated  sparrows,  or  peabody-birds,  were  singing  away  in  great 


38 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


glee.  Besides  some  chips  and  chucks^  they  had  a vei*y  sweet  strain,  fre- 
quently repeated,  which  said 


A ^ ^ ^ 

v-A 

m m m \— 

EE 

u ^ f— 

- r 1"  r — 1 — ' 

_ t t t 

Pra  rie,  re  re  re  re-e. 

These  sparrows  were  just  leisurely  migrating  from  their  Southern 
winter-homes  to  their  breeding-places,  almost  altogether  north  of  Colo- 
rado. Eastward  of  the  Plains,  indeed,  their  nests  are  built  rarely  south 
of  Labrador,  but  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  the  birds  stay  in  summer 

among  the  cool  uplands  almost 
down  to  the  40th  parallel.  I my- 
self had  the  pleasure  of  discover- 
ing one  of  the  earliest  nests  of 
this  bird  ever  taken  in  the  United 
States.  It  was  fixed  in  the  tall 
grass  growing  on  the  bank  of  a 
lovely  trout-brook  in  Southwest- 
ern Wyoming,  and  could  not  be 
seen  from  above,  for  the  yellow 
grasses  arched  over  it  like  a roof, 
and  the  bird  crept  in  through  a 
concealed  tunnel. 


It  had  been  pretty  rough  com- 
ing up  the  pass,  but  the  descent 
from  this  summit  was  ten  times  worse.  The  road  was  merely  a bridle- 
path, and  had  never  been  improved  in  the  least  respect  from  the  way 
Nature  left  it.  On  the  contrary,  every  animal  that  passed  left  it  worse 
than  before,  so  that  the  whole  road  was  a succession  of  deep  holes,  full 
of  mud  and  water,  of  big  bowlders,  with  angular  edges  and  slippery  sides, 
and  of  bogs,  across  which  we  had  to  build  corduroy  bridges,  and  then 
thrash  the  mules,  to  keep  them  from  leaping  on  one  side  into  the  mire. 
The  whole  was  steeply  descending,  and  wound  through  a dense  forest, 
so  that  the  getting  down  was  an  experience  to  be  remembered.  As 
soon  as  the  mules  began  to  drop  their  loads  in  the  torrents  that  rushed 
across  the  trail,  and  do  their  level  best  to  kick  them  to  pieces ; as  soon 
as  they  began  to  throw  themselves  headlong  on  the  sharpest  rocks  they 
could  find  ; as  soon  as  they  got  well  mired  in  sloughs  such  as  Bun3’an 
never  dreamed  of ; as  soon  as  they  rolled,  load  and  all,  a hundred  feet 


HOME  OF  THE  WHITE-CROWNED  SPARROW, 


MULE  STRENGTH  AND  STUPIDITY. 


39 


or  so  down  into  a gulch,  the  day’s  sport  began,  and  there  was  no  in- 
termission till  the  broad  prairies  of  Middle  Park  gladdened  our  eyes  at 
evening. 

Some  farther  characteristics  of  the  genus  mide  were  well  brought 
out  by  that  day’s  struggle — for  instance,  strength.  ' Our  pack  animals 
were  loaded  with  from  two  to  three  hundred  pounds  each  ; yet,  while 
everything  went  well,  they  climbed  about  as  though  they  were  free. 
We  found  them  very  sure-footed  and  plucky  under  their  loads  so  long 
as  they  kept  on  their  legs.  This  was  particularly  true  in  fording  rivers, 
and  I once  had  one  take  me  out  of  a very  awkward  predicament  in 
that  way ; but  let  one  fall,  and  his  courage  seems  to  leave  him. 

In  a bad  place  to  go  through,  like  a bog,  mules  are  desperately  stupid. 
The  very  first  of  our  mishaps  that  day  was  when  the  leading  mule  got 
a trifle  mired  on  the  edge  of  a mud-hole,  became  frightened,  and  fell. 
No  power  could  prevent  every  single  one  of  the  eight  pack  animals  fol- 
lowing from  piling  themselves  into  that  same  hole  in  a determined  effort 
to  get  past  or  over  the  prostrate  body  of  their  leader.  There  they  were 
— nine  of  them — floundering  on  their  backs  in  one  mire,  spoiling  their 
harness,  breaking  their  shins  against  the  rocks,  and  kicking  their  packs 
to  pieces  ! Safely  out  of  that,  and  re-packed,  the  next  move  was  for  the 
big  mule  carrying  the  kitchen  kit  to  fall  off  the  shelf-like  path  and  roll 
over  and  over  down  the  hill-side  about  sixty  feet. 

These  tough  beasts  can  stand  more  than  that,  though.  One  of  our 
parties  had  a mule  fall,  by  a series  of  bounds,  an  almost  vertical  distance 
of  about  two  hundred  feet.  It  being  supposed,  of  course,  that  he  was 
done  for,  one  of  the  men  went  down  with  a rifle  to  put  the  animal 
out  of  its  misery,  if  perchance  it  still  lived.  But  he  found  the  tough 
beast  pretty  comfortable,  the  pack  having  acted  as  a cushion  to  most  of 
its  tumbles ; and  when  released  the  acrobat  followed  along  into  camp 
little  the  worse  for  its  accident. 

His  mule  is  the  mountain-man’s  mainstay.  He  treats  it  much  more 
kindly  than  he  does  himself,  and  respects  it  far  more  than  he  does  his 
neighbor.  Finding  all  sorts  of  excuses  for  an  habitual  cutthroat,  he 
simply  hangs  the  mule-stealer. 


40 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


VI. 

Emerging  from  Berthoud’s  Pass  and  its  Gehenna  of  trails  (never- 
theless, I traversed  far  worse  afterward,  down  in  the  San  Juan  country 
and  up  among  the  Wind  Rivers),  we  came  out,  just  before  sunset,  into 
the  grassy  savannas  of  Middle  Park,  and  overtook  a party  of  the  Survey 
that  had  preceded  us,  resting  in  a little  grove  of  pretty  quaking-asp 
trees. 

Knowing  where  the  camp  is  to  be  placed,  the  most  of  us — there 
are  half  a dozen,  all  told,  in  the  party — gallop  ahead  and  unsaddle  our 
riding  animals,  each  putting  his  saddle,  gun,  coats,  etc.,  in  a heap  at  the 
foot  of  a tree.  By  that  time  the  train  has  come  up,  and  every  one  turns 
to  help  remove  the  packs  and  place  the  cargo  in  orderly  array.  This  op- 
eration the  sagacious  mules  undergo  with  the  most  exemplary  quietude  ; 
and  a little  later,  when  the  animals  have  cooled,  the  aparejos  are  taken 
off,  the  bell-horse  is  hobbled,  and  the  whole  herd  are  turned  loose  for 
the  night.  Their  first  act  is  to  roll,  removing  the  perspiration  and 
scratching  the  backs  grown  hot  and  irritated  under  the  heavy  loads, 
which,  at  first,  often  average  250  or  300  pounds.  Then  how  they  eat ! 
The  sun  sets,  twilight  fades,  the  camp-fire  is  replenished,  and  still  they 
munch,  munch  at  the  crisp  grass;  the  stars  come  out  and  the  riders  go 
in,  but  the  last  glimpse  of  the  mules  in  the  darkness  shows  them  with 
their  noses  to  the  ground.  A pack  train  intelligently  cared  for  will  act- 
ually grow  fat  upon  a trip  of  this  kind,  though  they  never  get  a mouth- 
ful of  grain  during  the  whole  four  or  five  months. 

The  very  first  mule  unloaded  is  the  staid  veteran  distinguished  by 
the  honor  of  bearing  the  cuisine.  A shovel  and  an  axe  having  been  re- 
leased from  their  lashings,  the  cook  seizes  them,  and  hurriedly  digs  a 
trench,  in  which  he  builds  his  fire.  While  it  is  kindling  he  and  any- 
body else  whose  hands  are  free  cut  or  pluck  up  fuel.  We  are  so  stiff 
sometimes,  from  our  eight  or  ten  hours  in  the  saddle,  that  we  can 
hardly  move  our  legs;  but  it  is  no  time  to  lie  down.  Hobbling  round 
after  wood  and  water  limbers  us  up  a little,  and  hastens  the  prepara- 


“FLY-FISHING”  WITH  “’HOPPERS.” 


41 


tion  of  dinner — that  blessed  goal  of  all  our  present  hopes ! If  a stream 
that  holds  out  any  promise  is  near,  the  rod  is  brought  into  requisition 
at  once ; and,  if  all  goes  well,  there  are  enough  fish  for  the  mess  by 
the  time  the  cook  is  ready  for  them. 


Flies,  as  a general  thing,  are  rather  a delusion  to  the  angler  than  a 
snare  for  the  trout.  The  accepted  bait  is  the  grasshopper,  except  when 
there  are  great  numbers  of  this  insect,  in  which  case  the  fish  are  all 
so  well  fed  that  they  will  not  bite.  The  best  fishing  had  by  any 
party  that  I was  with  was  in  Wyoming,  along  the  head-waters  of  the 
Green  river,  and  in  eastern  Idaho,  on  the  tributaries  of  the  Snake. 
That  region,  the  entomologists  say,  is  the  nursery  of  all  the  “ ’hopper  ” 
hordes  which  devastate  the  crops  of  Dakota,  Colorado,  and  Kansas ; 

but  when  we  were  there  it  was  so  difficult  to  find  bait,  that  we  used 

4 


42 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


to  keep  our  eyes  open  all  day,  and  pounce  upon  every  grasshopper  we 
could  find,  saving  them  for  the  evening’s  fishing.  The  usual  catch  was 
salmon- trout,  great  two  and  three  pounders,  gleaming,  speckled,  and 
inside  golden  pink  — that  sunset  color  called  “salmon.”  They  were 
not  gamy,  though — really  it  was  more  exciting  to  capture  the  lively 
bait  than  it  was  to  hook  the  trout — and  we  were  glad  of  it,  since  the 
object  was  not  sport,  but  the  despised  “ pot.”  In  the  southern  Rocky 
Mountains  we  took  true  brook-trout,  of  smaller  size,  but  of  excellent 
flavor.  The  largest  I ever  saw  came  from  the  upper  Rio  Grande,  where 
a charming  little  ranchwoman  fried  them,  for  us — in  commemoration  of 
which  the  canon  where  they  lurked  was  named  “ Irene.”  Rapid  de- 
capitation and  splitting  finished  the  dressing.  The  flesh  was  always 
hard  and  firm  and  white,  as  it  ought  to  be  in  a fish  born  and  bred  in 
snow-water.  If  by  chance  any  were  left  over  from  dinner,  they  made 
most  toothsome  sandwiches  for  the  next  noon-day  lunch,  especially  if 
(as  was  once  our  happy  lot)  there  was  currant  jelly  to  put  between  the 
bread  and  the  backbone. 

But  all  this  happens  while  the  cook  gets  his  fire  well  a-going.  That 
accomplished,  and  two  square  bars  of  three-quarters  inch  iron  laid 
across  the  trench,  affording  a firm  resting-place  for  the  kettles,  the 
stove  is  complete.  John  sets  a pail  of  water  on  to  heat,  jams  his  bake- 
oven  well  into  the  coals  at  one  side,  buries  the  cover  of  it  in  the  other 
side  of  the  fire,  and  gets  out  his  long  knife.  Going  to  the  cargo,  he 
takes  a side  of  bacon  out  of  its  gunny-sack,  and  cuts  as  many  slices 
as  he  needs,  saving  the  rind  to  grease  his  oven.  Then  he  is  ready  to 
make  his  bread. 

Flour  is  more  portable  than  pilot-biscuit;  therefore  warm,  light 
bread,  freshly  made  morning  and  night,  has  gratefully  succeeded  hard- 
tack in  all  mining  and  mountain  camps.  Sometimes  a large  tin  pan  is 
carried  in  which  to  mould  the  bread  ; but  often  a square  half-yard  of 
canvas  kept  for  the  purpose,  and  laid  in  a depression  in  the  ground, 
forms  a sufficiently  good  bowl,  and  takes  up  next  to  none  of  the  pre- 
cious room.  When  a bread-pan  is  taken  it  must  be  lashed  bottom  up 
on  top  of  the  kitchen-mule’s  pack.  If  it  breaks  loose  and  slips  down 
on  his  rump,  or  dangles  against  his  hocks,  there  is  likely  to  be  some 
fun ; and  when  a squall  sweeps  down  from  the  high  peaks,  and  the 
hailstones  beat  a devil’s  tattoo  on  that  hollow  pan,  the  mule  under 
it  goes  utterly  crazy.  The  canvas  bread -pan,  therefore,  is  preferred. 
Sometimes  even  this  is  dispensed  with,  the  bread  being  mixed  up  with 
water  right  in  the  top  of  the  flour -bag,  and  moulded  on  the  cover 


THE  UBIQUITOUS  TIN  CAN. 


43 


of  a box  or  some  other  smooth  surface.  Baking-powder,  not  yeast,  is 
used,  of  course.  This  species  of  leaven  (of  which  there  are  many  varie- 
ties) is  put  up  in  round  tin  boxes.  You  find  these  boxes  scattered  from 
end  to  end  of  the  Territories,  and  forming  gleaming  barricades  around 
all  the  villages.  The  miners  convert  them  to  all  sorts  of  utilities,  from 
flying  targets  to  safes  for  gold-dust ; and  one  man  in  Colorado  Springs 
collected  enough  of  them,  and  of  fruit-cans,  to  shingle  and  cover  the 
sides  of  his  house.  There  seems  now  to  be  found  no  region  so  wild, 
no  dell  so  sequestered,  that  these  glittering  mementos  do  not  testify 
to  a previous  invasion.  On  the  highest,  storm -splintered  pinnacle  of 
Mount  Lincoln  I discovered  a baking-powder  can  tucked  into  a cranny, 
as  a receptacle  for  the  autographs  of  adventurous  visitors. 


TOSSING  THE  FLAPJACK. 


Sometimes  the  cook  used  the  Dutch  bake-oven — a shallow  iron  pot 
with  a close-fitting  iron  cover,  upon  which  you  can  pile  a great  thick- 
ness of  coals,  or  can  build  a miniature  fire.  Having  greased  the  inside 
of  the  oven  with  bacon-rind,  bread  bakes  quickly  and  safely.  A better 
article,  nevertheless,  results  from  another  method.  Mould  your  bread 


44 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


well,  lay  the  round  loaf  in  the  skillet,  and  hold  it  over  the  fire,  turning 
the  loaf  occasionally  until  it  is  somewhat  stiff ; then  take  it  out,  prop  it 
upright  before  the  coals  with  the  aid  of  a twig,  and  turn  frequently.  It 
is  soon  done  through  and  through,  and  equally  on  both  sides.  Some- 
times we  had  biscuits  made  in  the  same  way;  but  these  were  more 
troublesome ; and  the  one  great  anxiety  in  the  preparation  of  dinner, 
after  a day’s  riding  or  climbing,  is  speed.  Men  must  eat  heartily  in 
this  oxygen-consuming  West,  and  are  eager  to  discharge  that  duty.  I 
invariably  found  myself  travelling  in  a particularly  hungry  latitude. 

The  table-furniture,  and  a large  portion  of  the  small  groceries,  such 
as  salt,  pepper,  mustard,  etc.,  are  carried  in  two  red  boxes,  each  two  and 
a half  feet  long,  one  and  a half  feet  broad,  and  a foot  high.  Each  box 
is  covered  by  a thin  board,  which  sets  in  flush  with  the  box,  and  also 
by  two  others  hinged  together,  and  to  the  edge  of  the  box.  Having 
his  bread  a-baking,  the  cook  sets  the  two  red  boxes  a little  way  apart, 
unfolds  the  double  covers  backward  until  they  rest  against  each  other, 
letting  the  ends  be  supported  on  a couple  of  stakes  driven  into  the 
ground,  and  over  the  whole  spreads  an  enamelled  cloth.  He  thus  has 
a table  two  and  a half  feet  high,  one  and  a half  feet  wide,  and  six  feet 
long.  Tin  and  iron  ware  chiefly  constitute  the  table-furniture ; so  that 
the  mule  carrying  it  may  roll  a hundred  feet  or  so  down  a mouhtain, 
as  occasionally  happens,  yet  not  break  the  dishes. 

His  table  set,  John  returns  to  his  fire,  and  very  soon  salutes  our 
happy  ears  with  his  stentorian  voice  in  lieu  of  gong : “ Grub  Pi-i-i-le  !” 

Coffee  is  the  main  item  on  our  bill  of  fare.  It  is  water,  and  milk, 
and  whiskey,  and  medicine  combined.  Ground  and  browned  in  camp, 
made  in  generous  quantity  over  the  open  fire,  settled  by  a dash  of  cold 
water  and  drunk  without  milk,  it  is  a cup  of  condensed  vigor,  the  true 
elixir  vitce^  a perpetual  source  of  comfort  and  strength.  Tea  is  pro- 
nounced ‘Gio  good,”  and  chocolate  is  only  used  to  distinguish  Sunday 
by.  Oh,  what  a bitter  trial  it  was,  after  one  particularly  hard  day’s 
work  in  Wyoming,  and  a stormy  day  at  that,  to  have  the  steaming  and 
fragrant  coffee-pail  kicked  over  by  a clumsy  foot ! There  was  an  irre- 
pressible howl  of  execration,  and  one  man’s  hand  impulsively  clutched 
his  revolver. 

But  coffee,  though  the  main-stay,  is  not  all  of  our  feast.  For  meat 
we  have  bacon  and  generally  steaks  or  roasted  ribs  of  elk,  mule-deer, 
or  mountain  sheep,  with  fresh,  crisp  bread,  or  sometimes  wheaten  flap- 
jacks,  made  in  the  orthodox  way,  and  properly  thrown  into  the  air 
during  the  cooking.  When,  as  occasionally  happens,  two  parties  meet, 


THE  ART  OF  FLAPJACKING. 


45 


the  rival  cooks  toss  the  flapjacks  to  each  other,  when  they  require  turn- 
ing, so  that  every  cake  begins  at  one  Are  and  is  finished  at  the  other. 
In  the  mining  camps  (it  is  said)  they  toss  them  up  the  chimney,  and 
catch  them  right-side  up  outside  the  door  ! Butter  there  is  none,  nor 


milk,  nor  potatoes,  nor  vegetables,  except  rice  and  hominy ; but  there 
is  plenty  of  fruit -sauce  — apricots,  peaches,  prunes,  etc.,  which,  being 
dried,  are  very  portable,  and,  being  Californian,  are  wonderfully  good. 
Occasionally,  also,  there  is  a corn-dodger  by  way  of  variety,  when  a 
pound  cake  of  maple-sugar  will  be  melted  into  sirup,  for  a feast.  For 
dessert  we  have  nothing  at  all  (yet  are  content),  save  when,  now  and 
then,  the  cook  makes  a plum  duff  to  put  our  digestions  to  the  test. 

Here,  in  this  Middle  Park  camp,  just  as  we  were  sitting  down 


A CAMP-DINNER, 


46 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


around  the  table,  using  bowlders  and  war-bags  and  sacks  of  bacon  as 
chairs,  we  saw  approaching  at  a leisurely  lope  over  the  prairie,  a large, 
lean  sorrel  horse  that  showed  good  points,  but  seemed  to  have  been 
roughing  it  quite  as  much  as  his  rider.  The  horse  bore  a gayly-rigged 
ranger’s  saddle,  behind  which  was  slung  the  carcass  of  a black-tailed 
deer,  whose  flapping  head  and  heels  seemed  not  to  disturb  him  in  the 
least ; and  in  the  saddle  sat  a remarkable  man — a person  of  medium 
height,  but  of  so  powerful  a build  that  his  breadth  of  chest  and  massive 
loins  seemed  better  fitted  for  a giant.  His  hair  and  beard  were  curly, 
and  yellow  as  corn-silk ; his  face  fiery  red,  through  incessant  exposure 
to  sun,  and  snow,  and  alkali -dust;  but  his  eyes  were  blue  as  the  lit- 
tle Lyccena  butterflies  flitting  in  thousands  over  the  blossoming  prairie. 
Across  his  shoulder  he  balanced  a heavy,  double-barrelled  rifle;  his 
waist  was  girdled  by  a red-white-and-blue  cartridge-belt ; from  his  boot- 
leg protruded  the  horn  handle  of  a hunting-knife,  and  a six-shooter  was 
strapped  to  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  He  was  dressed  throughout  in 
buckskin,  from  every  seam  of  which  depended  a six-inch  fringe  of  the 
same  material ; but  his  hat  was  a colorless  sombrero,  badly  crushed. 

This  was  ‘'Mountain  Harry”  Yount  and  his  horse  “Texas.”  He 
was  a professional  hunter,  with  whom  later  I became  well  acquainted 
through  months  of  companionship  in  hard  work — a notable  man,  of 
a type  almost  as  foreign  to  the  Eastern  States  as  is  a native  of  Japan. 

Yount’s  parents  were  Swiss,  but  he  was  born  at  Susquehanna,  Penn- 
sylvania, and  so  came  by  double  right  to  his  deep  affection  for  the 
mountains.  When  he  was  a child  his  father  moved  to  Kansas,  intro- 
ducing the  boy  at  an  early  age  to  pioneer  life.  But,  wearying  of  the 
plains,  when  eighteen  years  old  Harry  joined  an  emigrant  train,  and 
pushed  out  to  Pike’s  Peak,  driving  oxen.  Gold-mining,  however,  was 
not  his  vocation  ; and,  stimulated  by  his  innate  passion  for  the  freedom 
of  unfenced  nature,  Yount  quickly  abandoned  the  rocker  for  the  rifle, 
beginning  the  wild  and  lonely  career  he  has  since  led.  At  that  time 
such  a life  was  far  more  lonely  than  at  present,  notwithstanding  that  he 
was  able  to  get  his  game  much  nearer  to  the  main  settlements  than  is 
now  possible.  Yet  the  towns  twenty-five  years  ago  were  far  between, 
and  wanderers  among  the  snowy  ranges  or  interior  parks  very  few. 
Harry  hunted  principally  in  the  Medicine  Bow  range,  the  lofty  crests 
of  which  are  about  the  only  peaks  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  the  traveller 
on  the  Union  Pacific  Railway  catches  a glimpse  of  after  Cheyenne  has 
been  left  an  hour  behind.  Here  roamed  the  mountain  buffalo,  the  broad- 
antlered  wapiti,  the  agile  black-tail,  the  shy,  covert-loving  Virginia  deer ; 


OUR  HUNTER 


“MOUNTAIN  HARRY.” 


49 


every  valley  was  haunted  by  antelopes,  and  all  the  crags  were  homes  of 
the  mountain  sheep.  Where  there  was  so  much  tender  flesh  of  course 
many  beasts  of  prey  were  present — Harry  once  unexpectedly  stepped 
into  a convention  of  seven  grizzlies  — and  hard  experience  with  these 
creatures  added  deliberate  courage  to  the  skill  learned  from  seeking 
wary  deer  and  trapping  the  small,  shrewd  game  whose  furry  coats  were 
coveted.  To  find  out  all  the  passes  and  game-trails  through  these  un- 
known mountains — all  the  resources  of  living  alone  anywhere,  and  at 
any  season  ; to  elude  or  conciliate  the  Indians,  all  of  whom  were  to  be 
dreaded  ; and,  most  of  all,  to  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
distribution  and  habits  of  the  animals  and  birds,  was  the  task  before 
this  young  hunter,  and  one  looked  forward  to  with  eager  pleasure. 

He  was  armed  with  stout  hands,  keen  powers  of  observation,  and 
strong  enthusiasm.  Never  killing  for  sport,  all  his  energies  were  direct- 
ed toward  making  every  grain  of  his  costly  ammunition  yield  a profit- 
able return.  He  shot  buffaloes  for  their  robes,  and  what  meat  he  could 
send  a wagon  after  from  the  nearest  mining  camp,  many  a time  slaugh- 
tering a whole  herd  by  keeping  himself  concealed  while  he  shot  them 
one  after  another,  or  by  riding  them  down  in  a long  chase  on  Texas’s 
back.  Antelopes  he  hunted  for  the  sake  of  the  flesh.  They  were  abun- 
dant on  the  plains  everywhere,  and  his  method  was  to  drive  a span  of 
mules  and  a wagon  to  some  point  and  hunt  in  a circle  around  it,  killing 
a load,  and  then  driving  back.  There  is  far  more  skill  than  appears 
in  this  kind  of  work.  He  once  shot  seventy  antelopes  in  one  day,  in  a 
match  with  a crack  shot  from  the  East,  who  was  mightily  skilful  in  scor- 
ing bull’s-eyes,  but  found  hitting  a nimble  prong-horn  an  entirely  differ- 
ent matter.  Difflcult  as  this  feat  was,  and  much  credit  as  it  reflected 
upon  him,  Harry  was  always  ashamed  of  it.  It  went  against  his  heart 
to  kill  so  many  innocent  creatures  only  for  the  glory  of  markmanship. 

Harry  was  (and  is,  for  he  still  lives  in  the  West,  as  game  warden  of 
Yellowstone  Park — and  here’s  to  you,  old  fellow!)  a quiet,  simple-heart- 
ed man  among  a generation  of  ruffians  fortunately  growing  less.  Con- 
stantly supplying  the  workmen  along  the  new  trans- continental  rail- 
ways with  meat,  he  never  joined  those  orgies  that  used  to  characterize 
their  hours  of  leisure,  or  took  part  in  the  series  of  bloody  quarrels  that 
never  ended  so  long  as  any  combatants  were  alive.  By  nature  a gen- 
tleman, under  his  sinewy  frame  and  tireless  strength  there  glows  a 
heart  which  hates  cruelty.  His  eye  is  open  to  every  beautiful  feature 
of  the  grand  world  in  which  he  lives — his  heart  is  alive  to  all  the  gentle 
influences  of  the  original  wilderness.  Having  been  much  alone,  he  is 


50 


KNOCKING  'ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


timid  in  new  society,  reticent,  thoughtful,  and  given  to  framing  fanciful 
theories  to  account  for  such  phenomena  as  he  does  not  comprehend. 

What  stories  he  could  tell  round  a camp-fire  at  night,  when  dinner 
was  over,  the  big  blaze  had  been  built,  and  the  pipes  lit ! I had  many 
a discussion  with  him  concerning  points  in  natural  history,  wherein  he 
opposed  life-long  experience  to  the  statements  of  the  books  in  not  a 
few  instances.  He  has  read  much,  particularly  about  the  West,  and 
written  somewhat  for  newspapers,  even  indulging  in  rhyme  now  and 
then.  A handsome  man,  but  holding  in  great  contempt  the  long-haired 
fops  of  the  plains  who  ape  the  style  (because  they  cannot  rise  to  the 
heroism  or  skill)  of  Kit  Carson  or  Buffalo  Bill,  Harry  is  as  vain  as  a girl 
about  his  personal  appearance.  His  belt,  holster,  knife-sheath,  bridle, 
and  saddle  are  all  set  off  with  a barbaric  glitter.  I have  known  him 
to  pay  seventy-five  dollars  to  a Shoshone  squaw  for  the  adornment  of 
a single  buckskin  jacket,  which  was  a marvel  of  fringes,  fur-trimming, 
and  intricate  embroidery  of  beads.  Yet  his  is  not  a peacock-like,  strut- 
ting vanity,  but  a simple,  genuine  delight  in  bright  colors  and  pretty 
things.  He  laughs  quietly  at  it  himself,  but  says  he  likes  it.  And  why 
shouldn’t  he  dress  as  suits  him  ? 

‘‘  Mountain  Harry”  could  on  no  account  be  induced  to  leave  his  be- 
loved hills.  He  is  happy  as  a man  on  broad  estates — indeed,  he  feels 
that  he  owns  such,  as,  in  truth,  he  does,  to  all  purposes.  He  has  an 
idea  that  he  belongs  there,  and  that  those  rough  and  desolate  slopes, 
those  mighty  canons  and  towery  walls  of  lichen-stained  rock,  those  for- 
ests hiding  the  sources  of  mighty  rivers,  those  white  peaks  striking  up 
into  the  azure,  would  miss  him  and  grieve  for  him,  as  he  would  for 
them,  if  once  he  got  beyond  the  invigorating  chill  of  their  snow-banks 
and  the  resinous  fragrance  of  their  pines.  It  is  such  a character  as  his 
that  Thoreau  addressed : 

“ O man  of  wild  habits, 

Partridges  and  rabbits, 

Who  hast  no  cares. 

Only  to  set  snares  ; 

Who  liv’st  all  alone 
Close  to  the  bone. 

And  where  life  is  sweetest 
Constantly  eatest !” 


CAMP  LEISURE. 


51 


VII. 

Dinner  over  (and,  much  as  our  bodies  ached  with  ten  hours  in  the 
saddle,  or  a day’s  climb  to  make  some  topographical  station,  the  brief 
rest  and  the  help  of  the  food  has  freshened  us  remarkably),  the  remain- 
ing hour  or  two  of  daylight  is  employed  in  odd  jobs — exploring  the 
neighborhood,  to  get  an  idea  of  next  day’s  route  or  in  search  of  the  nat- 
ural science  of  the  place;  in  fishing,  mending  saddles  or  clothes opus^ 
hie  labor  est!),  in  making  beds,  writing  letters,  and,  if  it  looks  like  rain, 
in  putting  up  the  little  dog-tents,  of  which  there  is  one  for  each  two  of 
us,  except  the  cook,  who  has  a tent  to  himself  and  his  comestibles. 

Under  how  many  varying  circumstances,  then,  this  evening  meal  is 
eaten  ! Sometimes,  when  the  camp  is  stationary  for  two  or  three  days, 
in  a pleasant  bower ; next,  out  on  the  dry  plains,  before  an  illimitable 
landscape  of  sere  grass  stretching  away  to  where  the  delectable  moun- 
tains lie  on  the  snow-silvered  rim  of  the  world  ; again,  it  is  in  a hot  val- 
ley of  Arizona,  and  the  scalding  alkali  dust  blows  in  your  face  and  fil- 
ters through  your  food  ; or  at  high  timber-line  in  Colorado,  where  sleet 
and  snow  contest  the  passage  down  your  throat  with  rapidly  cooling 
coffee  and  chilly  bacon;  or  beside  the  Yellowstone  in  August,  with  its 
millions  of  ravenous  flies  and  hordes  of  thirsty  mosquitoes ; eaten  any- 
where and  everywhere,  with  the  royal  vigor  of  appetite  that  comes  of 
this  out-door  life,  and  the  marvellous  grandeur  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
as  garniture  for  your  dining-hall. 

Then  the  times  afterward,  when 

" The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night !” 

That  is  the  pleasant  hour  of  camp-life,  and  you  forget  that  a little  while 
ago  you  were  vowing  that  if  ever  you  got  safely  home  you  would  never 
again  be  caught  out  on  such  an  all -work,  no -play  expedition  as  this. 
After-dinner  reflections  take  on  a rosier  hue,  and  your  pipe  never  tastes 
sweeter  than  now,  as  you  idly  creep  about  among  the  brookside  willows 
till  its  smoke  warms  the  wings  of  the  birds  seeking  an  early  roost. 


52 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


The  most  noticeable  bird,  by-the-way,  in  this  part  of  the  mountains, 
haunting  our  track  all  through  the  pass,  and  not  quite  deserting  our 
fireside  here  in  the  park,  was  the  Canada  jay.  My  first  sight  of  it  was 
at  the  summit.  As  soon  as  the  smoke  of  the  camp-fire  began  to  drift 
away  toward  the  rocky  peaks  over  our  heads,  and  the  odor  of  the  juicy 
and  hissing  bacon,  mingling  with  the  warm  fragrance  of  the  russet- 
backed  biscuit,  essayed  to  rise  among  the  spruces,  then  the  Canada 
jays  began  to  assemble  to  share  in  the  coming  meal. 

“ What  are  those  birds,  Steve?”  I asked  our  old  head  packer. 

“Well,”  he  replied,  “in  Oregon  we  used  to  call  'em  ‘ camp- rob- 
bersin  Californy  I’ve  heerd  ’em  called  ‘meat-hawks;’  and  up  North 
we  called  ’em  ‘ buffalo-birds.’  ” 

He  had  never  heard  the  name  “whiskey-jack”  (said  to  be  a corrup- 
tion of  a Cree  Indian  word),  or  “ moose-bird,”  both  of  which  are  the 
common  designations  of  the  bird  in  the  Canadian  and  Maine  lumber 
camps ; nor  had  it  occurred  to  him  that  they  closely  resembled  the 
other  jays,  which  he  knew  very  well.  The  scientific  namiC  is  Pcrisorciis 
cajiademis  of  Bonaparte. 

This  bird  is  nearly  eleven  inches  in  length,  and  strongly  built ; its 
head  and  neck  and  the  forepart  of  the  breast  are  white ; beginning 
dull  lead-color  at  the  back  of  the  head,  a general  ashy  tinge  covers  the 
whole  upper  parts,  interrupted  by  a whitish  collar ; there  are  two  nar- 
row white  bars  across  the  wings,  and  the  edges  of  some  of  the  wing- 
quills  and  the  extremity  of  the  tail  are  obscurely  whitened  ; underneath, 
its  color  is  smoky  gray,  and  the  bill  and  feet  are  black. 

Belonging  to  the  Arctic  regions,  it  spreads  in  summer  over  the 
whole  of  British  America  to  the  shores  of  the  Frozen  Sea,  and  is  com- 
mon enough  ; while  in  winter  it  retreats  southward  only  so  far  as  the 
shutting  up  of  the  polar  world  by  darkness  obliges  it  to,  and  only  strag- 
glers get  as  far  south  as  Pennsylvania,  except  along  high  ranges.  In 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  however,  the  Canada  jay  lives  all  the  year  round, 
even  south  to  Arizona ; since  those  Alpine  heights  supply,  through  alti- 
tude, that  congenial  climate  which,  nearer  the  level  of  the  sea,  he  can 
only  find  in  high  latitudes.  The  Canada  jay  is  not  alone  in  thus  ex- 
tending southward  its  Arctic  range  into  a warmer  climate,  along  the 
peninsula  which  the  snowy  tops  of  the  mountains  afford.  There  are 
many  other  birds  that  do  the  same  thing — for  instance,  the  white-crown- 
ed sparrow,  of  which  I have  already  spoken ; the  horned  lark,  the  ptar- 
migan, and  various  others.  The  same  advantage  is  shared  by  many 
sorts  of  insects,  particularly  beetles ; and  on  some  of  the  peaks  occur 


TRAITS  OF  THE  CANADA  JAY. 


53 


isolated  colonies  of  moths  and  butterflies,  which  otherwise  you  will  not 
find  south  of  the  Arctic  circle.  So,  too,  it  is  reported  that  the  rare 
mountain  goat— a lover  of  ice-fields,  like  the  Alpine  ibex  and  chamois — 
works  his  way  even  to  the  borders  of  Arizona  along  the  cold  and  lofty 
crests  of  the  sierras,  though  nowhere  found,  even  at  the  level  of  timber- 
line,  south  of  the  headwaters  of  the  Mackenzie  river. 

The  Canada  jay  is  smaller  than  the  familiar  blue  jay,  and  has  no 
crest  like  his ; but  the  lighter-tinted  feathers  of  the  head  are  moderately 
long,  causing  a fat,  rounded  appearance,  as  though  a white  hood  were 
drawn  over  the  ash-gray  mantle  of  the  rest  of  the  body.  Around  the 
neck  is  a band  of  dark  lead -color,  like  a blackish  cape  to  the  hood. 
This,  with  his  black  feet  and  bill,  make  him  like  a brigand ; and,  in  fact, 
he  is  one — the  terror  of  the  smaller  birds  of  the  woods,  whose  homes 
he  robs  ruthlessly  of  both  eggs  and  young.  I have  a record  of  a case 
where  a single  pair  of  these  jays  destroyed  the  fledglings  in  four  nests 
of  snow-birds  in  one  day.  The  narrator  emptied  both  barrels  of  his 
gun  in  the  direction  of  the  marauders,  and  naively  remarks  that  he  is 
“ inclined  to  think  they  have  killed  no  young  birds  since.”  The  small 
birds  hate  them,  therefore,  as  they  do  owls  and  crows,  and  mob  them 
at  every  safe  opportunity.  A lost  straggler  of  this  species  was  seen 
many  years  ago,  in  midsummer,  in  the  upper  part  of  New  York  City — 
of  all  curious  places ! — where  he  was  surrounded  by  a group  of  spar- 
rows and  warblers  poking  no  end  of  fun  at  the  bewildered  stranger, 
just  as  the  city  newsboys  would  at  a country  lad. 

This  jay  is  never  seen  out  of  the  forests  of  the  high  mountains — 
say  from  nine  thousand  feet  upward — where  he  picks  up  a precarious 
existence  ; and  in  winter  the  poor  bird  is  often  reduced  to  mere  skin 
and  bones.  “At  such  times  it  will  frequently  weigh  no  more  than  a 
plump  snow-bird  or  sparrow,  and  undoubtedly  starves  to  death  some- 
times. During  the  latter  ^art  of  autumn  its  hoarse  croaking  is  almost 
the  only  sound  to  be  heard  in  the  cold,  sombre  forests  that  lie  near 
timber-line.”  The  moment  the  hunter  camps  in  the  dark  spruce  forests 
the  jays  flock  about  and  peer  at  him  with  great  curiosity.  They  are 
so  tame  that  they  perch  just  over  his  head,  and  walk  about  among  his 
luggage,  chattering  to  each  other  about  the  matter,  and  cocking  their 
head  on  one  side  and  the  other  just  as  a gigantic  chickadee  might  do. 
If  the  hunter  leaves  camp  for  a moment  the  birds  flock  in  and  snatch 
at  any  scrap  of  meat  or  other  eatable  morsel,  even  pulling  the  frying 
bacon  out  of  the  skillet  sometimes ; and  if  he  cuts  up  a deer,  then  he 
is  sure  of  their  interested  and  inquisitive  company. 


54 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


The  Canada  jay  afforded  Wilson  an  opportunity  to  fire  a shot  at 
Buffon,  whose  self-conceited  fancies  he  was  never  weary  of  ridiculing. 
He  says:  “Were  I to  adopt  the  theoretical  reasoning  of  a celebrated 
French  naturalist,  I might  pronounce  this  bird  to  be  a debased  de- 
scendant from  the  common  blue  jay  of  the  United  States,  degenerated 
by  the  influence  of  the  bleak  and  chilling  regions  of  Canada,  or,  per- 
haps, a spurious  production  between  the  blue  jay  and  the  cat-bird  ; or, 
what  would  be  more  congenial  to  the  Count’s  ideas,  trace  its  degradation 
to  the  circumstance  of  migrating,  some  thousand  years  ago,  from  the 
genial  shores  of  Europe — where  nothing  like  degeneracy  or  degradation 
ever  takes  place  among  any  of  God’s  creatures.  I shall,  however,  on 
the  present  occasion,  content  myself  with  stating  a few  particulars  bet- 
ter supported  by  facts,  and  more  consonant  to  the  plain  homespun  of 
common-sense.”  Then  follows  his  account,  most  of  the  facts  of  which 
he  obtained  from  Hearne’s  “Journey.” 

In  the  Arctic  regions  (where  it  is  a great  nuisance  to  the  hunter, 
stealing  the  bait  from  his  traps)  the  jay  builds  a stout  nest  in  a dense 
evergreen -tree,  woven  of  sticks  and  twigs,  inside  of  which  is  a well- 
packed  inner  nest  of  soft  mosses,  lined  abundantly  with  feathers. 
Though  it  lays  its  eggs  and  hatches  them  out  before  the  snow  has  left 
the  woods  in  the  spring,  it  is  able  to  feed  its  young  out  of  hoarded 
stores  of  food.  Our  Rocky  Mountain  variety  breeds  in  the  elevated 
spruce  forests,  but  I was  never  there  early  enough  to  take  its  nest, 
which  is  always  a rare  thing  to  find. 

Though  noisy  and  thievish,  the  camp-birds  are  amusing  fellows,  and 
we  liked  well  to  have  them  around  the  often  cold  and  desolate  camps 
made  just  under  the  snow-line.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  they  were 
so  perfectly  wild,  for  their  actions  suggested  those  of  a trained  parrot 
— every  motion  implied  a spectator. 


THE  HOT  SULPHUR  SPRINGS. 


55 


VIII. 

The  march  across  the  Middle  Park  was  decidedly  uninteresting. 
On  this  side  the  mountains  you  come  upon  the  cretaceous  formations 
which  were  deposited  as  debris  from  the  worn-down  summits,  when  they 
Avere  only  islands  here  and  there  in  a boundless  ocean.  These  creta- 
ceous strata  were  folded  and  flexed  before  that  great  upheaval  lifted  the 
Rocky  Mountains  bodily  throughout  their  whole  extent.  Here,  too,  are 
many  dikes  and  palisades  of  eruptive  rock,  all  of  which  about  this  dis- 
trict can  probably  be  referred  to  a line  of  small  volcanoes  lying  south  of 
here.  These  lava-bluffs,  resting  on  sedimentary  strata,  have  been  carved 
by  water  and  frost  into  all  sorts  of  queer  shapes,  reminding  one  of 
the  Garden  of  the  Gods.  The  heights  bounding  the  Park  were  pictu- 
resque, but  the  ground  travelled  was  only  a bare,  rough  plain,  after  all, 
and  I was  glad  to  get  to  Hot  Sulphur  Springs,  where  a little  settlement 
was  beginning  to  exist,  under  the  care  of  Mr.  William  N.  Byers,  the 
plucky  Denver  editor  already  introduced  to  my  readers.  These  springs, 
and  the  land  about  them,  were  early  pre-empted  by  Mr.  Byers,  who  built 
a cabin,  and  placed  a log  roof  over  the  principal  basin.  It  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  localities  in  Colorado.  Close  to  the  bank  of  the 
Grand  river  there  boils  out  a great  central  spring  of  hot  sulphur-water, 
the  deposits  of  which  have  built  up  a mass  of  white  rock  many  feet 
high  and  yards  square,  in  the  centre  of  which  is  the  vent,  and  an  oval 
basin  about  forty  feet  long  and  twenty  wide.  At  the  lower  end  the  wa- 
ter is  only  knee-deep,  perhaps ; but  at  the  upper  end,  where  the  stream 
pours  out,  it  is  seven  or  eight  feet  deep.  You  step  in  at  the  lower  end, 
and  find  the  temperature  very  pleasant ; but  as  you  advance  there  is  a 
rapid  increase  of  heat,  until  you  must  have  been  long  parboiled  before 
you  can  stand  close  up  at  the  vent,  whence  water  of  about  no  degrees 
of  heat  gushes  in  a strong  stream. 

The  springs  have  been  resorted  to  for  their  medicinal  properties 
from  time  immemorial  by  the  Indians,  who  still  come  here  during  the 
summer  in  large  companies.  Such  a bath  is,  of  course,  the  best  pos- 


56 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


sible  help  for  rheumatism,  a disease  from  which  all  Indians  are  great 
sufferers;  and  the  Utes  were  greatly  disgusted  to  see  the  white  owner 
assert  his  rights  by  roofing  the  basin  in  and  putting  a lock  on  the  door. 
The  fact  that  he  gave  them  every  reasonable  privilege  for  bathing  free- 
ly, while  he  charged  the  prospectors  and  tourists  who  happened  along 
six  bits  ” for  an  entrance,  did  not  satisfy  them  ; and  they  were  so 
grieved  and  angry  about  the  matter  at  first  that  it  almost  came  to  war. 

I believe  this  was  not  all  selfishness  and  rheumatism  on  the  part  of 
the  Indians,  but  partly  a superstitious  feeling  that  a sacrilege  was  being 
committed — something  that  moves  an  Indian  very  quickly,  and  which 
once  put  me  in  a dangerous  place,  as  I shall  have  occasion  to  mention 
farther  on. 

The  Utes  have  a tradition  about  these  springs,  told  me  by  Antelope, 
one  of  the  sub-chiefs  whose  band  was  encamped  there.  He  said  that 
long  ago,  before  any  Europeans  ever  came  to  the  West,  there  lived  a 
chief  of  the  Utes  who  was  not  only  an  heroic  warrior  but  also  a wise  and 
saintly  man.  His  voice  was  always  for  peace,  and  under  his  moderate 
guidance  the  whole  tribe  prospered.  When  he  had  grown  aged,  though, 
the  restless  young  men  urged  the  making  of  war  upon  the  neighboring 
Indians  of  the  plains,  the  Arapahoes,  and  won  a good  many  votes  in  the 
council  in  its  favor.  The  old  chief  resisted  and  begged  and  argued  ; 
but  at  last  the  hotheads  conquered,  not  only  disregarding  the  aged 
man’s  admonitions,  but  scornfully  deposing  him  from  his  presidency. 
Broken-hearted,  the  old  chief  sank  away  into  feeble  health,  and  upon 
the  news  of  the  first  defeat  of  his  braves  he  died.  Yet  it  was  with  sor- 
row, not  anger;  and,  true  to  his  beneficent  life,  his  spirit  entered  into 
the  heart  of  a lofty  hill,  whence  instantly  burst  out  the  healing  waters 
of  these  varied  and  copious  springs. 

The  indignation  of  Antelope’s  Utes — which  was  almost  at  boiling- 
point  when  we  happened  along — therefore  had  this  semi-religious  foun- 
dation ; and  a half-drunken  old  squaw,  hideously  scarred  by  a husband 
who  had  cut  off  her  nose  years  ago  to  mark  her  forever  as  an  adul- 
teress, expressed  about  the  temper  of  the  tribe  when  she  rushed  at  two 
of  us  with  a knife,  made  from  the  end  of  a broken  scythe,  as  if  to  cut 
us  in  pieces. 

Close  beside  the  spring  used  for  bathing  is  a second  one,  also  of  hot 
sulphur-water;  and  near  to  these  several  other  springs,  both  hot  and 
cold,  varying  in  their  mineral  character;  and  in  addition  cold  springs 
of  sulphur-water,  with  others  of  pure  water  whose  temperature  is  almost 
at  freezing-point.  Ah,  what  delicious  draughts  came  from  that  round 


SOCIABLE  SWALLOWS. 


57 


little  fountain  up  on  the  hill — princess  of  all  the  springs  in  the  world 
in  my  recollection  ! 

The  natural  history  of  this  place  was  very  interesting  — even  the 
little  that  a two-days’  stay  afforded  the  superficial  observer.  There 
used  to  be  plenty  of  elk  and  deer  here,  but  now  they  are  very  rare. 
The  howl  of  the  mountain-lion  is  sometimes  heard,  and  one  day  a small 
cinnamon  bear  came  rattling  down  the  hill-side  and  stampeded  a pair 
of  valiant  explorers  in  magnificent  style,  paying  for  it  with  his  life, 
however,  as  soon  as  they  had  got  their  breath. 

But  I was  after  smaller  game.  In  the  outlet  of  the  hot  sulphur- 
bath,  for  example,  I went  searching  for  mollusks ; and  there,  and  also 
immediately  in  the  cooler  alum,  salt,  and  magnesia  springs,  I found 
abundance  of  little  physa  snails,  although  they  seem  to  occur  nowhere 
else  in  the  vicinity.  The  rocks  that  encroach  upon  the  Grand  river 
here,  and  form  the  first  indication  of  the  magnificent  canon  through 
which  its  waters  rush  furiously  a few  miles  below,  are  full  of  niches 
and  small  grottoes,  the  last  of  which  are  the  homes  of  innumerable 
bats.  This  was  attested  by  their  presence  in  the  evening,  when  they 
went  squeaking  and  diving  about  over  the  river,  hawking  after  insects ; 
and  also  by  large  deposits  of  their  dung,  which  closely  resembles  tar. 

The  niches  in  the  rocks  were  occupied  by  large  colonies  of  barn- 
swallows — the  only  place  I ever  found  them  breeding  away  from  civil- 
ized structures,  as,  of  course,  they  were  all  obliged  to  do  before  the 
coming  of  white  men  to  America.  Sometimes  the  niches  in  the  lime- 
rock  (the  whole  mass  of  which  had  been  built  up  of  deposits  from  the 
mineral  waters)  were  so  close  together  that  there  would  be  half  a dozen 
in  a square  yard  ; yet  every  one  had  its  burnt-breasted  tenants,  and  the 
twittering  silenced  the  gurgle  and  sputter  of  the  rapid  stream  at  the 
ledge’s  base.  The  floor  of  each  niche  was  hollowed  out,  so  that  it  only 
required  to  be  softly  carpeted  to  constitute  it  a perfect  nest.  For  this 
grass-stems  and  a few  large  feathers  were  used,  precisely  as  in  our  East- 
ern barns.  But  here  the  birds  had  greatly  economized  labor  by  occu- 
pying the  niches,  for  they  needed  not  to  build  the  firm  underpinning 
and  stout  high  walls  which  become  necessary  in  the  barn,  or  on  an  ex- 
posed rock-shelf,  to  prevent  the  eggs  and  young  from  rolling  out ; all 
these  happy  birds  had  to  do  was  to  furnish  a house  already  made. 
These  were  the  Hiriindo  erythrogastriim — the  true  barn  swallow,  with 
orange  breast,  which  builds  on  the  beams  or  in  angles  of  the  rafters 
inside  of  the  barn  ; but  on  the  opposite  bluff — which,  being  native  rock, 
and  not  this  lime-deposit,  had  a smooth  face — lived  the  familiar  cliff 

5 


58 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


or  eave  swallows  (PetrocJielidon  hinifrons),  whose  cup -like  or  bottle- 
shaped abodes  cling  in  a long  row  outside  our  barns  under  the  shelter 
of  their  eaves. 

Climbing  a high  point  back  of  our  tents,  which  were  in  the  midst 
of  a sage-brush  flat,  close  to  the  river,  I had  a queer  little  bit  of  good- 
luck  one  evening.  It  was  just  at  nightfall,  and  as  I reached  the  top  a 
large  owl  came  swooping  down  and  perched  on  a crag  some  distance 
off.  Drawing  my  revolver,  I held  it  up  and  walked  slowly  nearer,  ex- 
pecting neither  to  get  within  range  nor  hit  the  bird  if  I fired ; but  he 
let  me  get  so  near  that  at  last,  about  thirty  yards  off,  I blazed  away,  and 
down  came  the  owl.  Rushing  up,  I could  see  him  lying  in  the  brush 
a little  way  below ; but  it  was  some  time  before  I got  courage  enough 
to  reach  down  and  take  hold  of  him,  for  a bite  or  talon-grasp  from  a 
wounded  owl  is  no  joke.  He  proved  to  be  stone-dead,  and  it  was  a 
long  tune  before  I found  out  the  bloodless  wound,  the  bullet  having 
gone  in  at  the  base  of  the  skull  and  out  of  the  open  mouth,  without 
tearing  any  of  the  feathers.  He  was  a fine  barred  or  ‘‘cat”  owl,  about 
two  feet  long. 

From  this  pinnacle,  in  daylight,  there  is  visible  a picture  of  blue 
mountains  whose  sharp,  serrated  outline  indicates  a portion  of  the  main 
range  in  front  of  Long’s  Peak.  Among  those  immutable  yet  ever- 
changing  bulwarks  lies  a lake  in  a circle  of  guardian  peaks  whose  heads 
tower  thousands  of  feet  above  it,  and  whose  bases  meet  no  one  knows 
how  far  below  the  surface  of  its  dark  waters.  It  is  Grand  Lake,  a spot 
taboo  among  Indians  and  mysterious  to  white  men.  The  scenery  is 
primeval  and  wild  beyond  description : Roundtop  is  one  mountain  at 
least  that  has  suffered  no  desecration  since  the  ice  ploughed  its  fur- 
rowed sides.  The  lake  itself  lies  in  the  trough  of  a glacier  basin,  and 
its  western  barrier  is  an  old  terminal  moraine,  striking  evidences  of  gla- 
cial action  occurring  on  all  sides  in  the  scored  cliffs  and  lateral  moraines 
that  hem  it  in.  Its  extent  is  about  two  miles  by  three,  and  its  greatest 
depth  unfathomable  with  a line  six  hundred  feet  in  length.  The  water 
is  cold,  and  clear  near  the  shore,  but  of  inky  blackness  in  the  middle. 
In  the  reflection  usually  pictured  upon  its  calm  bosom  all  the  cloud- 
crowned  heads  about  it  meet  in  solemn  conclave ; but  not  seldom,  and 
with  little  warning,  furious  winds  sweep  down  and  lash  its  lazy  waters 
till  the  waves  vie  with  each  other  in  terrible  energy.  On  such  treachery 
hangs  one  of  the  many  tales  told  by  the  camp-fire  of  this  singular  lake. 

Some  years  ago — so  the  story  goes — a party  of  Utes,  with  women  and 
children,  were  camped  upon  its  banks,  trout-fishing.  Suspecting  noth- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GRAND  LAKE 


59 


ing,  and  unprepared  for  war,  they  were  one  day  surprised  by  a strong 
band  of  Arapahoes,  their  ancient  and  implacable  enemies.  Looking 
first  of  all  to  the  safety  of  their  wives  and  little  ones,  the  best  and 
quickest  way  seemed  to  be  to  set  them  adrift  upon  rafts  in  the  centre 
of  the  lake  till  the  victory  should  be  won.  This  done,  they  returned 


GRAND  LAKE. 


to  repel  the  attack.  The  battle  waged.  Engrossed  in  its  excitement, 
none  noted  the  rising  winds,  till  the  patience  of  the  elements  failed,  the 
unleashed  storms  rushed  down  upon  their  prey,  and  the  rafts  were  sub- 
merged. Never  to  this  day  has  the  lake  given  back  a single  one  of  its 
victims.  In  their  consternation  the  Utes  fell  an  easy  prey  to  the  Ara- 
pahoes, and  only  one  of  all  that  company  escaped  to  tell  the  fearful 


CO 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


tale.  What  wonder  that  the  Indian  counts  such  signal  and  swift  de- 
struction as  a special  manifestation  of  the  Great  Spirit’s  anger,  and 
avoids  the  place  as  a dreadful  and  fatal  spot  ? 

The  outlet  of  the  lake  is  one  of  the  forks  of  the  Grand  river,  follow- 
ing which  brings  me  back  to  where  I started  from.  It  is  fortunate  that 
I can  follow  river-courses,  or  I should  get  totally  lost! 


THE  GRAND  RIVER  VALLEY. 


61 


IX. 

A day’s  march  down  the  Grand  river  from  the  Hot  Sulphur  Springs 
takes  one  to  the  junction  of  both  the  Blue  and  the  Muddy  rivers,  flow- 
ing in  from  opposite  directions,  through  a wide,  marshy  plain.  There  is 
a knoll  that  juts  out  into  the  valley,  from  which  the  finest  view  is  ob- 
tained. You  naturally  face  the  north  there,  and  at  your  right  hand  the 
Grand  winds  five  or  six  miles  down  from  where  a bend  in  the  river  lim- 
its the  view,  through  meadows  of  that  deep-green  grass  seen  only  in 
wet  ground,  and  on  both  sides  series  of  hills  sweep  up  higher  and  high- 
er till  they  merge  into  the  dark  mountains  behind  them.  These  hills 
are  covered  with  sage-brush,  whose  dense,  ashy  foliage  makes  them  ap- 
pear carpeted  with  drab  plush.  From  this  cinereous  tint  there  is  a gra- 
dation into  the  indigo  of  greater  heights ; and,  as  though  to  set  these 
out,  the  indistinct  outline  of  peaks  in  the  main  range  is  visible  in  the 
wondrously  clear  air — a rear  rank  of  mountains.  At  one  point  they  rise 
into  a mass,  among  which  Roundtop,  at  the  side  of  Grand  Lake,  is  but 
a dwarf  beside  the  towering  height  of  Long’s.  Farther  to  the  right  a 
near  hill.  Elk  mountain,  hides  a quarter  or  so  of  the  horizon,  which  con- 
tains some  of  the  highest  peaks  in  the  range  ; but  to  the  left  you  can 
follow  the  line  of  bald  hills  around  to  the  north,  where,  through  the 
break  in  which  the,  Muddy  comes  down,  you  can  discern  Rabbit  Ears 
and  its  neighbors  of  the  Medicine  Bow  range,  dim  with  distance  and 
embroidered  with  snow.  Between  them  and  you  some  remarkably  ab- 
rupt hills  will  attract  your  attention,  and  just  in  front  long,  brown  pal- 
isades of  indurated  clays  form  the  prominent  object  in  the  picture. 
Running  your  eye  along  the  hills  to  the  left,  you  catch  sight  of  the 
jaws  of  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Grand,  a tremendous  rent  through  gran- 
ites and  eruptive  rocks,  three  miles  long  and  1500  feet  deep,*  where  in 


* This  gorge  now  appears  on  the  maps  as  Gore’s  Canon,  and  the  Denver  and' 
Rio  Grande  Railway  has  run  a narrow-gauge  line  through  it,  adding  one  more  to 
the  long  list  of  views  of  splendid  scenery  this  company  offers  the  traveller. 


62 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


many  places  you  may  drop  a stone  plumb  from  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
to  the  river  below. 

Now  turn  around.  At  your  feet  is  another  river  wriggling  through 
the  grass  and  willows,  just  as  the  Grand  does,  till  it  joins  that  stream  in 
the  centre  of  the  valley.  It  is  named  the  Blue,  but  its  waters  are  yel- 
low with  the  mud  from  the  streams  at  its  head.  Its  hither  banks  are 
mere  sage-brush  plains,  lovely  in  the  distance  and  uncomfortable  close 
by ; but  on  its  farther  bank  stand  the  Park  mountains,  the  finest  range 
in  the  region,  with  their  heroic  head.  Mount  Powell — the  most  mountain- 
ous they  seem  to-day  of  all  the  mountains  I have  yet  seen.  The  whole 
range  is  rugged  and  inaccessible  in  the  extreme,  and  of  a deep-blue  col- 
or, whether  seen  one  or  one  hundred  miles  away.  Behind  Powell  stand 
almost  his  equals,  isolated  by  “ great  gulfs,”  all  bare  and  ragged  and 
black  save  the  long,  thin  locks  of  snow  blown  back  from  their  ancient 
foreheads.  Climbing  2000  feet  to  the  top  of  an  opposite  hill,  we  photo- 
graphed these  mountains  and  their  foreground.  During  the  time  we 
were  there  snow-storms  drifted  through,  banks  of  clouds  filled  their 
gorges,  rain  came  from  them  and  scudded  across  the  valley,  their  pinna- 
cles swam  one  moment  in  the  glow  of  sunlit  haze,  and  stood  out  the 
next  sharp  and  cold  against  a steel-gray  winter  sky. 

One  day  we  had  a lively  experience  of  this  same  “ winter  sky.”  It 
treated  us  to  an  all-day,  steady  down-pour  of  rain  and  sleet,  through 
which  we  rode  in  dripping  and  disconsolate  silence.  The  train  had  gone 
ahead,  as  usual ; and  when  my  friend  and  myself  reached  the  place  of 
encampment  it  was  pitch  dark,  the  storm  increased  in  force,  and  our 
tents  were  not  even  raised.  In  this  plight  we  cooked  and  ate  our  food 
under  such  shelter  as  a willow  bush  afforded  ; and,  erecting  the  tent, 
with  a big  ditch  around  it,  crept  out  of  our  rubber  ponchos  into  our 
blankets,  and  slept  in  spite  of  wind  and  rain. 

Rheumatism  next  morning?” 

“ Not  a bit  of  it ; never  felt  better  in  my  life.” 

It  is  fifty  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  Blue  river  to  Breckenridge — 
a little  mining  town — where  we  crossed  over  the  Park  range  to  the 
head-waters  of  the  South  Platte,  through  the  Hoosier  pass.  This  pass 
admits  you  into  South  Park.  The  descent — nothing  remarkable,  how- 
ever— is  rather  steep,  and  near  the  base  you  come  face  to  face  with 
very  high,  vertical  walls  of  smooth,  black  granite,  perfectly  marbled 
by  veins  of  quartz  intersecting  each  other  in  every  direction,  and  meas- 
uring from  a tenth  of  an  inch  to  six  feet  in  thickness.  Right  here,  in 
the  ruggedest  of  rugged  gorges,  where  it  would  seem  impossible  for 


IMITATING  A WATER-OUZEL. 


63 


goats  to  spend  the  night  comfortably,  is  the  village  of  Montgomery, 
whose  glory,  like  that  of  three-fourths  of  these  mountain  towns,  is  de- 
parted. The  miners  seem  to  take  delight  in  forming  their  “ camps  ” in 
such  a way  as  to  exclude  every  possibility  of  anything  nice  or  inviting. 
In  a ’choice  of  two  objects  they  invariably  take  that  which  is  most  rude 
and  uncomfortable.  But  this  contributes  to  picturesqueness,  and  I can 
think  of  nothing  which  exhibits  this  element  of  beauty  more  than  one 
of  these  towns  perched  among  the  debris  of  a primeval  earthquake. 

Down  this  gorge  came  the  South  Platte,  a brawling,  bounding  youth 
of  a stream,  just  released  from  the  icy  fetters  of  the  mountain  where  it 
takes  its  rise.  It  was  not  late  when  dinner  was  over,  and,  lighting  my 
favorite  pipe,  I unfolded  my  bed,  stretched  it  out  in  a convenient  place 
without  any  special  making  up,  and  then  walked  down  to  the  bank  of 
the  river.  Just  as  I reached  the  margin  a little  drab-colored  bird  flitted 
across  the  stream  and  dived  into  the  water.  The  bird  looked  like  a 
sparrow.  But  who  ever  saw  a sparrow  dive  like  that  ? I went  nearer, 
and  saw  it  come  out ; so  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  its  having  gone 
under.  An  instant  later  a second  came  flying  down  the  creek,  dropped 
upon  the  water,  where  I could  see  it  plainly,  sank  to  the  bottom,  and 
with  outspread  wings  began  to  move  about  the  pebbles  as  unconcerned- 
ly as  if  he  was  picking  up  grubs  on  shore.  I knew  him  then.  He  was 
the  water-ouzel,  or  dipper — a bird  now  very  well  known  to  naturalists 
(and  popularly),  but  then  more  of  a novelty.  Anxious  to  get  a better 
view,  I incautiously  walked  out  on  a log  that  spanned  the  current,  when 
in  a flash  my  cap  and  pipe  went  one  way  and  I the  other.  Ugh  ! how 
cold  that  water  was  ! and  deep,  too  ! By  the  time  I struggled  up  I was 
completely  saturated  with  ice-water ; and  by  the  time  I had  succeeded 
in  extricating  from  the  depths  of  my  war-bag  any  dry  clothes  I was  al- 
most too  stiff  to  put  them  on,  for  a cutting  wind  swept  down  from  the 
heights.  But  this  accomplished  at  last,  I began  to  run  back  and  forth 
as  briskly  as  my  chilled  muscles  would  permit,  when  down  came  an  icy 
blast  and  a heavy  fall  of  wet  snow.  Snatching  our  tents,  we  laid  them 
across  our  half-made  beds  and  crept  under,  supposing  we  should  be  out 
again  in  a quarter  of  an  hour  or  so ; but  that  squall  settled  into  a storm, 
and  we  had  to  undress  ourselves  in  those  confined  quarters,  wriggle  the 
blankets  into  shape  as  best  we  could,  and  stay  there  under  six  inches  of 
snow  till  morning.  This  was  the  very  next  night  after  the  rainy  day  on 
Rattlesnake  creek ; and  during  the  succeeding  one  I slept  out  alone  on 
Mosquito  pass,  without  any  bed  at  all,  as  you  will  presently  hear. 


64: 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


X. 

My  first  year’s  campaign  taught  me  some  points  in  camp-life  which 
would  have  lessened  the  hardship,  if  known  earlier,  information  upon 
which  may  prove  useful  to  some  future  wanderer. 

Any  one,  for  instance,  who  is  of  the  opinion  that  it  is  not  hard  work 
to  ride  on  mule-back  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  an  average  of  twenty 
miles  a day  for  three  months,  is  respectfully  referred  to  practical  expe- 
rience for  an  answer.  It  is  noteworthy,  though,  that  the  wisest  enter- 
tain widely  different  views  on  the  point  of  hardship  at  6 A.M.  and  6 
P.M.  At  sunrise  breakfast  is  over,  the  mules  and  everybody  else  have 
been  good-natured,  and  you  feel  the  glory  of  m.ere  existence  as  you 
vault  into  your  saddle  and  break  into  a gallop.  Not  that  this  or  that 
particular  day  is  so  different  from  other  pleasant  mornings,  but  all  that 
we  call  the  weather  is  constituted  in  the  most  perfect  proportions.  The 
air  is  “ nimble  and  sweet,”  and  you  ride  gayly  across  meadows,  through 
sunny  woods  of  pine  and  aspen,  and  between  granite  knolls  that  are 
piled  up  in  the  most  noble  and  romantic  proportions.  But  later  you 
toil  up  a mountain  thousands  of  feet  high,  tramp  your  weary  way 
through  the  snow  and  loose  rocks  heaped  upon  its  summit,  “ observe,” 
and  get  laboriously  down  again;  or  search  through  forty  ledges  and 
swing  a ceaseless  hammer  in  collecting  fossils  ; or  march  all  day  under 
a blazing  sun,  or  in  the  teeth  of  a dusty  gale,  munching  only  a sand- 
wich as  you  plod  along — till  gradually  your  “glory  of  existence”  oozes 
away,  and  the  most  dismal  reflections  arise  to  keep  company  with  your 
strained  muscles.  How  welcome  after  that  is  the  evening  bivouac, 
when  there  is  rest  for  the  aching  limbs,  and  no  longer  need  to  tighten 
the  belt ! The  busy  hour  between  the  end  of  the  march  and  sitting 
down  to  dinner  quickly  passes,  and  the  meal  is  not  hurried  ; after  that, 
leisure  and  the  solid  comfort  of  camping. 

It  is  astonishing  how  greatly  recuperated  one  feels  after  half  an 
hour’s  rest  and  his  dinner,  following  the  most  tremendous  exertions  all 
day.  Sometimes  it  seems,  when  camp  is  reached,  that  one  has  hardly 
strength  to  make  another  move ; but  after  dinner  one  finds  himself 


PREPARING  FOR  THE  NIGHT. 


65 


able  and  willing  to  do  a great  deal.  This,  as  I have  already  said,  is  the 
hour  for  exploring  the  neighborhood,  preparatory  to  next  day’s  work ; 
for  investigating  the  natural  history  of  the  locality,  or  putting  up  the 
specimens  accumulated  during  the  day;  for  mending  harness  and  arms 
and  clothes,  and  writing  memoranda,  or  perchance  letters,  against  a pos- 
sible opportunity  to  send  them  out  to  the  civilized  world  by  some  In- 
dian or  friendly  trapper.  But  the  most  important  work  is  the  making 
of  your  bed.  It  is  the  one  thing  in  this  wandering  life  that  you  cannot 
afford  to  neglect,  and  which,  z/ neglected,  is  the  cause  of  more  hardship, 
distress,  and  possible  illness  than  any  other  one  thing  which  it  is  pos- 
sible to  guard  against.  Nevertheless,  unless  the  camp  is  to  be  fixed 
in  that  spot  for  several  days,  it  is  not  usual  to  put  up  the  tents,  except 
when  the  weather  is  stormy. 

These  tents  are  of  the  army  pattern  known  as  “ dog-tents  ” — just 
large  enough  for  two  persons  to  stretch  themselves  out,  side  by  side, 
but  not  more  than  three  feet  high,  even  under  the  ridge.  The  canvas 
is  of  good  quality,  however,  and  will  stand  a severe  rainfall  without 
wetting  through,  so  long  as  the  inside  of  the  cloth  is  not  touched.  If 
the  precaution  is  taken  to  dig  a ditch  around  the  tent,  so  that  the 
water  will  run  away  and  not  spread  underneath  the  edges,  making 
pools  on  the  floor,  you  will  find  yourself  secure  from  all  storms.  But, 
as  a rule,  one  doesn’t  bother  to  put  up  a tent. 

No  matter  how  firmly  resolved  you  may  be  upon  roughing  it,  you 
soon  find  that  it  pays  to  keep  your  bed  dry  and  warm,  and  to  spend 
all  needed  time  in  making  it  up.  Hardship  enough  will  be  inevitable ; 
needless  exposure  is  foolish.  The  proper  supplies  in  the  way  of  bed- 
ding consist  of  the  following  articles : a piece  of  moderately  heavy 
canvas-ducking,  water-proofed,  fourteen  feet  long  by  four  feet  wide  ; a 
buffalo-robe,  trimmed  into  a rectangular  piece  sufficient  to  lie  at  full 
length  upon  ; two  pairs  of  thick  California  blankets,  and  a small  pillow. 
This  appears  to  be  the  list  settled  upon  by  the  best  experience.  All 
are  light  and  warm,  and  can  be  rolled  up  inside  the  canvas  and  strapped 
into  a cylindrical  bundle,  so  compact  as  easily  to  be  carried  in  one  hand, 
and  so  tight  that  it  may  be  rained  upon  all  day  and  not  be  wetted 
through.  The  California  blankets  are  expensive,  but  it  is  better  econ- 
omy to  buy  them.  A pillow  is  a great  comfort ; lacking  it,  one  finds  a 
fair  substitute  in  his  boots,  saddle,  war-bag,  or  even  in  a piece  of  wood. 
A thick  night-cap  is  more  convenient  than  your  broad-brimmed  hat  to 
sleep  in  ; and  nothing  warms  chilled  feet  so  much  in  bed  as  dry  woollen 
socks,  which  may  be  kicked  off  later  in  the  night. 


66 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


At  every  opportunity  air  the  bedding  thoroughly  in  the  sunshine. 
Then,  before  the  evening  dew  comes,  stretch  out  your  long  piece  of 
canvas,  lay  the  buffalo-robe  smoothly  on  the  upper  end,  double  your 
blankets,  and  place  them  one  over  the  other  upon  the  robe.  After 


THE  nOG-TENTS. 

smoothing  out  every  wrinkle,  the  two  blankets  together  are  evenly 
folded  once  over  lengthwise,  the  remainder  of  the  canvas  (seven  feet) 
is  drawn  up  over  the  foot,  so  that  the  toes  cannot  push  through,  and 
the  bed  is  made.  You  have  a canvas,  buffalo-robe,  and  four  thicknesses 
of  blanket  under  you,  and  (except  the  robe)  the  same  over  you,  the 
blankets  passing  full  thickness  behind  your  back,  which  you  will  learn 
to  place  to  windward.  Then  you  fully  undress,  put  your  rifle,  revolver, 
and  clothes  under  the  flap  of  the  canvas  cover,  to  keep  the  frost  off. 


SCIENTIFIC  BED-MAKING. 


67 


slide  gently  into  your  rough,  clinging  blankets,  pull  the  edges  together 
in  front,  jerk  the  canvas  over  your  ears,  and — pleasant  dreams  to  you  ! 

Such  is  scientific  bed-making:  but  there  are  niceties.  It  is  impor- 
tant, for  example,  that  the  surface  you  lie  on  shall  be,  not  soft — that  is 
a little  matter  — but  level;  sloping  neither  toward  one  side  nor  from 
head  to  foot.  Unless  you  are  sure  about  this  you  will  slide  out  of  bed 
in  some  direction.  Common-sense  would  tell  you  to  clear  all  stones 
and  nodules  away  (though  sometimes  this  is  impossible) ; but  only  ex- 
perience, or  a wise  friend,  will  teach  the  camper  that  his  rest  will  be 
tenfold  better  if  he  digs  a depression  underneath  his  bed  where  his 
hips  come.  The  reason  why  persons  become  so  stiff  who  pass  an  acci- 
dental night  on  the  floor,  or  on  a railway  bench,  is  mainly  because  they 
have  had  no  support  for  the  spine,  such  as  the  yielding  bed  affords ; 
all  night  long  many  muscles  have  had  to  keep  on  duty,  bearing  up  the 
less  prominent  parts  of  the  body.  The  spring  of  a mattress  cannot  be 
found  in  the  ground,  but  it  can  be  imitated  by  sinking  the  hips  until 
the  small  of  the  back  also  rests  upon  the  earth.  Always  dig  a hole 
under  your  bed. 


A GOOD-NIGHT  WHIFF. 


If  you  are  in  fear  of  the  cold  (frequently  an  altitude  is  attained  for 
which  the  bedding  sufficient  below  is  an  inadequate  protection,  partic- 
ularly if  a heavy  wind  is  blowing  or  the  snow  is  flying),  a good  plan 
is  to  fold  your  blankets,  turn  up  the  bottom  as  usual,  and  then  stitch 
the  whole  together  into  a bag.  Another  way  is  not  to  erect  your  tent, 
which  is  little  or  no  protection  against  cold,  but  to  spread  it  over  you 


68 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


and  peg  it  down,  or  pile  enough  rocks  around  the  edges  to  keep  it  from 
blowing  away.  The  former  plan  I tried  in  1877,  with  great  success;  but 
it  was  the  hardest  work  in  the  world  to  get  into  my  bag,  which  was  just 
large  enough  and  no  larger.  I had  to  insinuate  my  body  as  gently  as 
a surgeon  probes  a wound,  in  order  to  keep  the  blankets  from  drawing 
out  of  shape  before  I was  inside.  When  once  I had  wriggled  in,  how 
snug  it  was ! I could  not  turn  over  without  rolling  the  larger  part 
of  my  bedding  with  me.  Yet  those  very  same  nights,  away  up  on  the 
bald  brow  of  a lonesome  peak,  when  every  man  piled  on  as  many  extra 
canvas  mantas  and  buffalo-robes  as  he  could  find,  the  mosquitoes  were 
so  thick  that  we  had  to  build  miniature  tents  of  netting  over  our  half- 
frozen  heads  to  get  any  sleep  at  all.  It  was  the  most  startling  con- 
junction of  winter  and  summer,  zero  and  insects,  that  I ever  heard  of. 

But  at  such  altitudes  one  must  expect  often  to  find  it  very  cold  at 
night,  even  in  midsummer.  Often,  down  in  the  San  Juan  country,  near 
the  head-waters  of  the  Rio  Grande,  we  woke  up  to  find  the  canvas  over 
us  frozen  as  stiff  as  sheet-iron.  When  one  rises  under  those  forbidding 
circumstances  he  gets  into  his  frosty  trousers  with  considerable  celerity. 

I think  the  very  coldest  night  I ever  had  in  the  mountains  was  on 
the  occasion  of  a little  adventure  in  Mosquito  pass,  long  before  Leadville, 
to  which  that  pass  has  since  been  made  a highway,  was  ever  dreamed 
of.  It  was  then  a very  high,  rough  pathway  over  the  range — merely 
a place  where  it  was  possible  to  get  up  and  down,  and  used  mainly 
by  donkeys  — but  I had  to  go  across  that  way,  and  started.  It  was 
a long,  unfamiliar  road  ; I was  alone  ; a storm  came  up  ; I went  widely 
astray  from  the  dim  trail,  and  had  a variety  of  minor  adventures,  which 
I have  chronicled  elsewhere.  The  result  was,  that  when  I got  over  the 
gale-swept  crest  and  down  to  timber-line  on  the  right  side  it  was  dark ; 
and,  after  thrashing  through  half  a mile  of  wet  thickets  and  dense 
woods,  my  horse  and  I at  last  came  to  an  utter  stand-still  in  front  of 
where  a tornado  had  piled  fallen  timber  across  the  already  half-obliter- 
ated trail.  It  was  useless  to  go  farther,  so  I unsaddled  at  a little  open 
spot  among  some  spruces.  Securing  my  exhausted  horse  by  his  long 
lariat,  I dragged  the  heavy  ranger’s  saddle  to  an  evergreen,  and  dived 
into  the  pouches  after  matches,  for  if  you  are  warm  being  hungry  does 
not  greatly  matter.  Alas,  there  were  none  ! For  the  first  and — ccla  va 
sans  dire — for  the  last  time  in  the  West  I had  not  a lucifer  ! Then  I 
took  an  inventory  of  my  goods,  which  were  not  designed  for  such  an 
evil  fate  as  this.  First,  there  were  my  saddle  and  saddle-bags,  which 
contained  only  a stupid  flask,  empty  of  everything  save  odor,  a tanta- 


A LONELY  NIGHT  IN  THE  FROST. 


69 


lizing  pipe  which  could  not  be  lit,  and  a pair  of  woollen  socks,  which  I 
pulled  on  as  an  attempt  at  a night-dress.  This  saddle  was  my  pillow, 
and  a thin,  worn-out  saddle-blanket,  with  my  rubber  poncho,  constituted 
my  bedding — rather  scanty  for  eleven  thousand  feet  or  so  above  the 
sea ! I spread  my  poncho  under  the  drooping  branches  of  the  spruce, 
just  where  partridges  love  to  hide,  gathered  the  ragged  blanket  about 
my  legs,  belted  an  army  overcoat  tight  about  me,  and  lay  down.  I 
was  very  weary ; my  nag’s  steady  crunching  was  the  only  disturbing 
sound,  and  I soon  fell  asleep.  My  nap  was  not  a long  one,  however^ 
on  account  of  the  cold  ; but,  re-arranging  the  coverings,  I again  slept  an 
hour  or  so.  This  time  I awoke  thoroughly  chilled,  yet  dozed  a little 
longer,  until  I shook  in  every  member,  and  had  just  sense  enough  left 
to  raise  myself  up  and  move  about.  My  poor  horse  was  standing, 
head  down,  the  picture  of  lonesome  misery.  With  a low  neigh  as  I 
approached,  he  came  to  meet  me,  and  followed  me  with  his  nose  at 
my  shoulder  as  I walked  back  and  forth.  What  a night  it  was!  All 
around  the  glade  stood  a wall  of  forest,  black  except  where,  on  one 
side,  a group  of  burnt  trunks  held  aloft  their  skeleton -white  arms. 
The  grass  was  pale  and  crisp  with  frost,  which  crackled  under  my  feet 
as  I walked.  Overhead  the  stars  seemed  fairly  to  project  from  their 
jetty  background,  like  glittering  spear-points  aimed  at  my  cantonment. 
I noted  the  slow  wheeling  of  that  platoon  of  nebulae,  the  Milky  Way. 
I studied  the  constellations,  but  got  little  comfort.  Corona  only  sug- 
gested 

“That  a sorrow’s  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things,” 

and  the  Pleiades  seemed  to  beg  me  to  sympathize  with  their  lost  sis- 
ter. At  one  side  a bit  of  the  creek  valley  was  visible,  over  which  faintly 
gleamed  the  whitish  snow-crest  of  some  mountain.  It  was  profound- 
ly still.  Icy  water  gurgled  softly  under  the  elders ; tall,  muffled  trees 
swayed  gently ; an  occasional  ringing  snap  of  frost  was  heard,  like  fairies 
clinking  glasses  ; but  these  sounds  were  so  consonant  with  the  whole 
scene  that  they  did  not  break  the  stillness.  There  was  nothing  partic- 
ular to  be  afraid  of,  my  walking  warmed  me,  and,  giving  myself  up  to 
imaginative  thought,  I came  readily  to  enjoy  the  novelty  of  the  expe- 
rience, and  the  calm  delight  which  the  sweet  influences  of  the  night 
^ver  exert.  Thus  quieting  myself,  drowsiness  weighted  my  eyelids, 
till,  scarcely  feeling  what  I did,  I again  laid  my  head  on  the  saddle,  and 
did  not  awake  until  the  blue  ridges  were  sharply  and  grandly  outlined 
against  a glowing  background  of  auroral  light. 

The  reason  for  my  being  alone  here  was,  that  I had  cut  across  the 


•70 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  'ROCKIES. 


range  by  this  route,  while  the  rest  of  the  party  went  around  through 
South  Park  and  over  to  the  Arkansas  by  the  way  of  Trout  creek,  in  or- 
der that  I might  get  our  mail  at  Granite — a mining  camp  and  post- 
office.  I reached  there  too  late  to  attend  the  proceedings  in  which  it 
was  decided  not  to  hang  two  Chinamen,  whose  only  crime  was  that 
they  wanted  to  come  there  and  work ; but  I saw  the  court,  and  came 
very  near  seeing  the  pigtails  hung  anyhow ! They  left  town  in  a great 
hurry,  at  all  events,  and  that  night  there  was  a ball  at  the  Trans-con- 
tinental Shades  saloon. 

This  opportunity  for  unbending  was  embraced  by  pretty  much  all 
the  population  of  the  camp.  I think  the  only  families  unrepresented 
were  those  of  the  justice  of  the  peace  and  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel; 
and  as  they  contained  all  the  women  there  were  in  town,  to  speak  of,  it 
is  needless  to  say  that  the  male  element  predominated  in  the  ball-room, 
to  the  entire  exclusion  of  anything  else.  The  genial  proprietor  of  the 
Shades  united  within  himself  the  duties  of  both  bar-tender  and  floor- 
manager;  but  in  the  former  capacity  he  was  ably  assisted  by  a fiery- 
headed  youth  popularly  known  as  ‘‘Reddy.”  As  for  the  “floor”  he 
managed,  it  was  only  hard-trodden  earth,  and  the  decorations  of  the 
walls  were  old  coats,  old  hats,  discarded  elk- antlers,  rifles,  and  some 
pictures  from  the  Police  Gazette,  in  which  there  was  always  a sufficient 
breeze  blowing  to  lift  the  pretty  girl’s  petticoats  a trifle  above  her  boot- 
tops.  To  these  hangings  was  speedily  added  a row  of  boots  of  gigan- 
tic proportions,  which  were  hung  on  wooden  pegs  or  piled  under  the 
benches  along  the  wall  as  soon  as  the  dancing  began. 

Beside  thirty  or  forty  gold-washers,  rough  and  big  enough  to  sat- 
isfy all  conventional  requirements  for  the  type,  there  were  present 
three  or  four  gamblers,  who  set  up  a faro-table  in  one  corner ; the  fid- 
dler— a young  freighter  from  Fairplay ; two  or  three  cut-throat-looking 
Mexicans,  who  had  driven  up  some  beef-cattle  from  Saguache ; a lank, 
peaked -bearded  lawyer  or  two,  in  rusty  regimentals  of  broadcloth;  a 
Herald  reporter  from  New  York,  who  had  just  returned  from  South 
Africa ; and  myself. 

By  the  time  the  crowd  had  taken  an  average  of  two  drinks  all 
round  the  bar-man  ordered  the  fiddler  to  “whoop  ’er  up,”  and  yelled  a 
general  invitation  to  “ clinch.”  The  crowd  fell  back  to  the  benches, 
the  wicks  of  two  or  three  smoky  oil-lamps  fixed  in  the  logs  were  turn- 
ed up,  two  stalwart  Missourians  grasped  each  other’s  hands  and  waists, 
where  six-shooters  dangled  in  lieu  of  tassels  on  a silken  sash,  and  began 
to  pat  the  clay  with  stockinged  feet  to  the  time  of  a lively  waltz,  where- 


CUTTING  CAPERS  IN  A LOG  Ci^BIN. 


71 


ill  the  musicians  were  assisted  by  a jolly  soul  who  drummed  on  the  bar 
with  a beer-glass.  In  a moment  another  pair  had  joined  them,  then  a 
third,  and  so  on  until  the  floor  was  full  of  nimble  miners,  spinning  and 
whirling,  executing  interludes  of  pigeon-wing  and  double-shuffle,  each 
leap  accented  by  a whoop  or  shriek,  to  which  the  delighted  spectators 
responded  with  approving  yells  and  clatter. 

When  the  dancers  were  out  of  breath — which  comes  hard  in  this 
thin  air — the  bar-keeper  invited  them  to  a “ What’ll  ye  have,  gentle- 
men ?”  The  fiddler  took  brandy  in  '' his’n,”  while  the  majority  of  the 
spectators  drank  on  each  other’s  account,  and  let  the  other  pay  for  it, 
intending  to  return  the  compliment  themselves  after  the  next  dance. 

This  time  a quadrille  claimed  the  floor — two  of  them,  indeed,  and 
we  outsiders  climbed  upon  the  benches  out  of  the  way.  After  this  an 
adept  in  the  jig  business — whose  Irish  mug  proclaimed  his  good  right 
to  know  the  steps — gave  an  exhibition  that  elicited  loud  applause,  but 
ruined  his  socks ; and  then  the  Greasers  were  invited  to  show  how  they 
did  it  at  the  fandango  down  in  “ Mayheeko,”  and  thought  it  prudent  to 
comply,  though  with  bad  grace. 

And  so  the  fun  continued,  tanglefoot  whiskey  flowing  at  two  bits 
a drink,  until  everybody  was  satisfied  to  go  home ; but  long  before 
this  I had  stolen  away.  I heard  next  morning  that  there  had  been  a 
murder  during  the  night ; but  I do  not  believe  that  the  dance  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it. 

That  night  I slept  in  a bed,  and  on  a spring-mattress ; yet  it  was  a 
very  uncomfortable  rest,  for  somehow  I couldn’t  keep  the  bedclothes 
snugly  about  me  as  I did  my  blankets  out-of-doors.  If  I had  known 
then  that  the  kind  host  had  put  himself  and  his  family  to  sleep  on  the 
kitchen-floor,  in  order  to  give  me  his  only  bed,  I should  not  have  slept 
half  as  well  as  I did. 


72 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XI. 

This  part  of  Colorado  was  then  the  seat  of  the  principal  mining 
for  gold,  the  process  of  which  may  as  well  be  described  here,  in  order 
that  future  allusions  may  be  understood  without  special  remark. 

The  person  who  travels  through  many  parts  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, and  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  will  observe  along  the  banks  of  the 
streams  vast  piles  of  bare  gravel.  Through  the  midst  of  these  heaps  of 
pebbles — among  which,  now  and  then,  there  towers  up  the  round  back 
of  a bowlder,  or  rises  a little  grassy  island,  bearing  some  charred  stump 
— one  may  often  see  remains  of  wooden  machinery  and  the  ruins  of 
abandoned  huts ; or  he  may  even  meet  with  men  at  work,  and  learn 
how  the  hasty  little  stream  is  made  to  pause  and  pay  toll  in  service  as 
it  rushes  downward  from  the  snow-fields  where  it  was  born. 

All  these  appearances  are  signs  of  gold-mining,  by  the  method 
known  as  ‘‘  placer-washing”  or  ‘‘gulch-digging.”  It  is  the  simplest  and, 
in  some  respects,  the  most  interesting  of  all  the  processes  by  which  the 
precious  metal  is  got  out  of  the  earth.  It  has  been  practised  for  a very 
long  period.  History  does  not  go  back  far  enough  to  tell  us  when  gold 
first  began  to  be  used,  but  it  is  supposed  that  all  the  gold  the  ancients 
had  was  procured  in  this  way.  Wherever  that  mysterious  country  Ophir 
may  have  been,  no  doubt  it  was  a placer  district. 

When  gold  has  been  discovered  in  any  region  (and  this  usually  hap- 
pens through  some  lucky  accident)  adventurous  men  rush  to  the  spot 
in  crowds,  and  at  once  look  for  more  signs  of  it.  This  search  is  called 
“ prospecting,”  and  it  is  done  by  parties  of  two  or  three,  who  go  along 
the  creeks  flowing  down  from  the  hills,  and  test  the  gravel  in  the  banks 
until  they  find  what  they  seek.  The  prospector’s  outfit  consists  of  as 
much  provision  as  he  can  carry  on  his  back  or  pack  on  a donkey — a 
couple  of  blankets,  guns  and  ammunition,  a few  cooking- utensils,  a 
shovel  and  pick,  and  a gold-pan.  The  last  is  the  most  important  of 
all  these,  excepting  food.  It  is  made  of  sheet-iron,  and  is  shaped  much 
like  an  extra  large  milk -pan.  The  prospectors  (who  call  each  other 


PROSPECTING  FOR  GOLD. 


73 


partner,  or  “ pard  ” for  short,  agreeing  to  divide  all  they  find)  trudge 
along  all  day  beside  their  Mexican  donkeys,  keeping  their  eyes  keenly 
upon  the  lookout,  and  slowly  climbing  toward  the  head  of  the  ravine 
or  gulch  down  which  the  creek  plunges.  Finally  they  come  to  a point 
where  the  gulch  widens  out  a little,  or  perhaps  where  a rivulet  flows 
down  from  a side-hill,  and  a high  bank  of  gravel  has  collected.  Then 
they  let  their  donkeys  feed  upon  the  short,  crisp  grass  or  nibble  the 
white  sage,  while  they  climb  a little  way  up  the  bank  and  dig  a pit  a 
few  feet  deep. 


PANNING-OUT  GOLD-GRAVEL. 


You  may  see  these  “ prospect -holes  ” all  over  the  mountains,  for 
many  times  nothing  has  been  found  at  the  bottom  of  them  to  justify 
farther  operations  there  ; and  a man  who  is  unlucky  enough  to  dig 
many  of  these  fruitless  pits  gets  the  reputation  of  being  a “gopher,” 
and  finds  himself  laughed  at. 

Their  prospect -hole  dug  down  to  where  the  gravel  is  firm,  they 
scoop  up  a panful  of  dirt  and  carry  it  down  to  the  margin  of  the 
stream.  First  having  picked  out  the  large  pieces  of  stone,  one  of  the 
prospecters  then  takes  the  pan  in  both  hands,  dips  up  a little  water, 

6 


74: 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


and,  gently  shaking  the  pan,  allows  the  water  to  flow  over  the,  edge 
and  run  away,  carrying  with  it  the  lightest  portions  of  the  soil.  This 
is  done  repeatedly ; but,  as  less  and  less  of  the  heaviest  dirt  is  left  be- 
hind, greater  care  must  be  used.  It  requires  much  dexterity  and  prac- 
tice to  keep  the  bottom  of  the  pan  always  lower  than  the  edge  and  at 
the  same  time  dip  up  and  pour  out  the  water  without  throwing  away 
mmre  earth  than  you  wish  to.  Tender  management  for  eight  or  ten 
minutes,  however,  gets  rid  of  everything  except  a spoonful  of  black 
sand,  and  among  this  (if  you  have  been  successful)  gleam  yellow  par- 
ticles of  gold,  which  have  settled  at  the  bottom,  and  have  been  left 
behind  in  the  incessant  agitation  and  washing  away  of  the  earth,  be- 
cause they  were  heavier  than  anything  else  in  the  pan. 

This  operation  is  called  “washing”  or  “panning-out;”  but  it  is  not 
quite  done  yet,  for  the  “ colors,”  or  particles  of  gold,  must  be  separated 
from  the  black  grains,  which  are  mainly  of  iron  or  lead.  By  passing 
a magnet  back  and  forth  through  them  these  will  be  dragged  out,  stick- 
ing to  it,  after  which  the  gold  left  behind  is  weighed  and  its  value  esti- 
mated. If  a prospector  finds  he  can  average  three  cents  in  every  panful 
of  dirt,  he  knows  he  can  make  money  by  the  help  of  machinery ; but 
if  he  is  to  do  his  work  wholly  by  hand  he  must  collect  at  least  ten 
cents  from  each  pan,  and  in  the  early  days  this  would  have  been 
thought  very  moderate  pay.  There  used  to-  be  mines  in  Colorado 
known  as  “ pound-diggings,”  because  it  was  said  that  a pound’s  weight 
of  gold  a day  could  be  saved  by  every  man  who  worked  there. 

After  testing  here  and  there,  our  prospectors  decide  upon  the  best 
part  of  the  gravel -bank  (which  they  would  call  a “bar”),  and  take 
possession  of  a small  tract,  or  “ claim,”  the  amount  of  which  is  regu- 
lated by  law,  which  “ claim  ” they  mark  by  driving  down  stakes  upon 
which  are  written  the  names  of  the  claimants  and  the  boundaries  pre- 
empted. 

Our  miners,  let  us  suppose,  prefer  not  to  get  their  gold  by  the  slow 
method  of  panning.  They  therefore  procure  some  pieces  of  board  and 
hammer  together  a “ rocker,”  or  “ cradle.”  This  machine  takes  its  name 
from  its  resemblance  to  an  old-fashioned  baby’s  cradle — the  “ old-fash- 
ioned ” referring  to  the  furniture,  not  to  the  infant.  It  is  mounted 
upon  two  rockers,  and  its  head -board  is  high  enough  to  serve  as  a 
handle  for  moving  it.  Inside  is  arranged  a series  of  three  or  four  sieves, 
upon  inclined  supports,  one  above  the  other,  the  coarsest  sieves  being 
uppermost.  There  is  no  foot -board,  for  in  its  place  projects  a long 
spout  out  of  which  the  waste  water  runs,  which  is  fitted  with  cleats  or 


ROCKING  AND  SLUICING. 


75 


“riffles”  like  those  I shall  explain  farther  on  when  I speak  of  the  sluice. 
Into  this  cradle  one  man  shovels  the  dirt  and  gravel,  while  his  partner 
rocks  it  and  pours  in  the  water,  which  he  dips  out  of  the  stream  with 
a long-handled  dipper.  The  big  stones  all  shoot  off  from  the  surface 
of  the  cradle,  but  the  dirt  and 
small  pebbles  fall  through  upon 
the  second  sieve,  through  which, 
in  turn,  the  finer  half  goes,  and 
so  on  until  the  bottom  and  the 
spout  catch  the  gold  and  retain 
it  alone,  while  the  water  drifts 
the  worthless  stuff  away. 

The  cradle  is  an  old  contriv- 
ance, and  many  forms  of  it  are  in 
use,  some  having  only  a single 
perforated  partition  to  screen 
off  the  largest  stones.  It  can 
be  carried  about  wherever  the 
miner  finds  it  convenient  to 
work,  and  it  does  not  require  a 
vast  deal  of  water ; lastly,  it  calls 
for  much  less  skill  than  most 
other  methods  of  washing.  Nevertheless  the  day  of  the  cradle  is  near- 
ly gone  by,  except  where  a single  poor  man  goes  off  by  himself  to  some 
retired  spot  and  works,  not  so  much  for  wealth,  as  merely  for  the  hope 
of  getting  a living.  In  its  place  the  “sluice-box”  has  come  to  be  the 
great  instrument  for  gathering  gold  out  of  a placer-bar. 

In  order  to  operate  a sluice  to  advantage  there  must  be  plenty  of 
material  to  be  handled  and  plenty  of  water.  It  is  upon  a sure  sup- 
ply of  water  that  placer- mining  depends,  and  it  often  happens  that 
a bar  that  is  worth  very  little  might  be  worth  a great  deal,  if  only  a 
stream  could  be  turned  through  it.  Sometimes  the  gravels  are  in  the 
very  bed  of  the  creek,  or  on  a level  with  it,  and  the  poor  stream,  tort- 
ured out  of  its  course,  is  sent  into  a dozen  new  channels,  while  the  old 
beds  are  rocked  through  the  creaking  cradles,  or  go  rattling  down  the 
stretching  lengths  of  the  hollow  sluices.  But,  as  a rule,  it  is  necessary 
to  bring  the  water  in  a ditch  from  some  lofty  point  in  the  mountains 
down  to  the  highest  part  of  the  placers.  Sometimes  all  the  miners 
stop  work  and  unite  in  making  the  ditch,  which  they  then  own  in  com- 
mon ; at  other  times  one  or  two  men  will  pay  for  the  construction 


MINER  AND  CRADLE. 


76 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


of  the  ditch,  which  they  then  own,  and  from  which  they  lease  water 
to  the  miners.  You  may  see  these  little  canals  curving  under  the 
brows  and  along  the  retreating  slopes  of  the  hills,  seeking  in  and  out 
of  all  the  windings  a slant  by  which  the  water  will  steadily  run  down- 
ward. Now  and  then  a rocky  headland  must  be  skirted  or  a deep  gully 
crossed,  and  here  the  water  is  carried  in  a wooden  “ flume,”  supported 
upon  a trestle-work  of  poles  and  props.  These  aqueducts  become  a 
striking  addition  to  the  naturally  strange  scenery,  in  their  rough  out- 
lines, as  they  straggle,  all  mossy,  rude,  and  dripping, 
over  and  around  great  bronze-brown  cliffs  and  along 
the  green,  velvety  hill-sides. 

Now  let  us  examine  how  the  ditch  is  made  use- 
ful. When  it  is  completed,  as  many  gates  are  made 
as  there  are  mines  to  be  supplied.  Through  these 
water  can  be  drawn  off.  Then  the  water  is  let  on, 
and  flows  gurgling  and  sparkling  through  the  canal, 
bright  and  limpid  as  a natural  mountain  torrent. 

Meanwhile  each  miner  has  built  his  sluices. 
These  consist  of  long,  narrow  boxes  made  of  plank- 
ing— one  plank  high  on  each  side  and  two  planks 
broad  at  the  bottom.  Sometimes  only  two  or  three 
of  these  boxes  or  troughs  are  placed  end  to  end, 
sometimes  a long  line  of  them  ; but  all  along  on  the 
bottom,  particularly  down  toward  the  lower  end,  are 
nailed,  crosswise,  strips  of  wood  like  cleats,  which 
are  known  as  “ riffles  ” — I suppose  because  they 
make  a series  of  little  waves  or  riffles  in  the  water 
as  it  flows  over  them.  Usually,  also,  in  addition  to 
the  cleats,  the  bottom  is  paved  with  cobble-stones, 
so  as  to  offer  as  many  chinks  and  crannies  as  possible.  Now  all  is 
ready  for  extensive  placer-mining;  and  opening  the  gate  which  admits 
to  the  little  channel  that  leads  to  the  sluices,  down  comes  the  clear  blue 
water,  and  goes  dashing  and  foaming  through  the  confined  trough  and 
worries  past  the  riffles,  until  it  finds  itself  free,  at  the  “ tail,”  to  run  on 
down  the  valley  whither  it  will.  It  is  pure  and  sparkling  when  it 
enters,  but  in  a moment  becomes  brown  as  chocolate  with  mud,  for 
the  miners  are  shovelling  the  earth  and  gravel  into  the  sluice-boxes, 
and  the  rivulet’s  play-day  is  over — its  work  of  gold-washing  has  begun. 

After  my  description  of  the  cradle,  I need  hardly  trouble  you  to 
read  an  explanation  of  sluicing.  It  is  perfectly  plain  to  you  that,  when 


THE  “CLEAN-UP.” 


77 


the  gravel  is  shovelled  into  the  sluices,  the  swift  current  sweeps  away 
all  the  light  stuff,  and  rolls  the  round  stones  out  at  the  end,  while  the 
heavy  grains  of  gold  sink  rapidly  to  the  bottom,  and  are  caught  behind 
the  cleats,  or  between  some  of  the  paving-stones.  Usually  the  men  help 
this  process  along  by  continually  stirring  up  the  bottom  of  the  sluice- 
box  with  a shovel,  so  that  too  much  besides  the  gold  shall  not  stay  be- 
hind ; and  frequently  some  quicksilver  is  sprinkled  in  the  bottom,  to 
attract  and  hold  the  gold  more  surely.  This  seems  a very  rude  and 
clumsy  contrivance  in  working  after  so  precious  a prize ; indeed,  it 
never  seems  quite  right  to  dig  and  toss  and  treat  so  carelessly  the  rich 
soil  of  these  mines ; but  experience  has  shown  that  gold  is  so  sure  to 
sink  through  all  this  agitation  and  mass  of  waste  rock,  and  is  so  inde- 
structible, that  these  rough  methods  are  good  enough  for  this  kind  of 
mining.  It  used  to  be  quite  a common  thing  in  California  and  Montana 
for  a speculator  to  buy  a cabin  where  gambling  had  been  carried  on,  or 
the  banking  business  had  been  done,  and  burn  it  down,  for  the  sake  of 
panning  out  of  the  ruins  the  fragments  of  gold-dust  which  had  been 
spilled.  I was  told  of  a cabin  in  West  Denver  which  thus  yielded 
twelve  hundred  dollars  and  over. 

The  proof  of  this  efficacy  comes  at  night,  or  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
when  the  clean-up  is  made.  Then  the  water  is  shut  off,  the  sluice  is 
drained  dry,  and  all  the  big  stones  are  thrown  out.  The  black  iron-sand 
and  other  sediment  in  the  bottom  is  scraped  out  of  all  the  corners  and 
crevices,  and  carefully  washed.  A rich  panful  of  gold  remains — perhaps 
hundreds  of  dollars’  worth — which  is  separated  from  the  iron  by  the  use 
of  a magnet,  as  before,  and  poured  into  the  little  buckskin  bag  which 
forms  the  miner’s  wallet.  Last  of  all,  it  is  weighed  and  divided  be- 
tween the  various  partners  who  are  working  the  claim  together. 

By  the  amount  of  the  “clean-up”  they  judge  of  the  worth  of  the 
claim,  if  anybody  proposes  to  buy  it  of  them.  The  general  supposition 
is,  that  a claim  will  average  the  same  yield  of  gold  all  the  way  through  ; 
but  this  does  not  always  hold  true.  The  gold  occurs  in  “ pay-streaks,” 
and  two  claims,  side  by  side,  may  be  of  very  unequal  value.  The  effort 
of  every  miner  is  to  get  to  “ bed-rock”  as  soon  as  he  can — that  is,  to  the 
rocky  floor  upon  which  the  gravel  has  been  drifted  and  piled — for  the 
reason  that  in  the  process  of  that  drifting  the  gold  has  a chance  to  fall 
through  the  bowlders  and  sift  down  to  the  bed-rock.  He  will  tell  you 
that  it  is  paved  with  a sheet  of  solid  gold,  but  often  he  finds  hardly 
more  than  he  met  with  on  the  way. 

Sometimes  it  is  only  a certain  layer  in  the  bank  which  is  “pay  dirt” 


78 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


and  profitable  to  work.  Then  he  pushes  a tunnel  into  the  side  of  a hill, 
and  brings  his  gravel  out  on  a wheelbarrow  to  wash  at  the  opening. 

Men  work  all  day  in  these  tunnels,  sometimes  lying  almost  at  full 
length  upon  their  sides ; and  accidents  occasionally  occur,  by  the  roof 
falling  or  otherwise.  In  digging  down  to  bed-rock  it  frequently  happens 


THE  SLUICE  AND  TUMP. 


that  the  hole  or  shaft  becomes  so  full  of  water  that  no  more  work  can 
be  done.  It  would  cost  too  much  to  pay  a man  to  pump  it  out,  and 
very  likely  one  man,  or  even  a dozen  men,  would  be  unable  to  do  it. 
But  here  is  the  water  in  the  neighboring  creek,  or,  if  that  is  wanting, 
the  stream  from  the  big  ditch,  waiting  to  be  harnessed  to  do  the  work. 
So  the  blacksmith  is  consulted,  and  an  axle-tree,  trunnions,  and  some 


THE  GROWTH  OF  MINING-TOWNS. 


79 


other  bits  of  iron -work,  are  forged.  Then  a framework  is  raised,  a 
small  water-wheel  knocked  together  and  hung  in  it,  a flume  laid,  which 
pours  a stream  of  water  upon  the  wheel,  and  a rough  gearing  of  poles 
so  arranged  that  every  time  the  wheel  goes  around  the  plunger  of  the 
pump  is  raised,  and  the  water  is  pulled  out.  Sometimes  the  connecting- 
rod  between  the  water-wheel  and  the  pump  is  a line  of  aspen-poles,  a 
hundred  or  two  hundred  feet  long.  This  is  supported,  every  dozen  feet 
or  so,  upon  standards,  which  are  fastened  on  pivots  to  firm  blocks  on 
the  ground,  so  as  to  move  backward  and  forward  with  each  lifting  and 
sinking  of  the  pump. 

When  a company  of  men  find  a new  gold  gulch,  and  begin  to  work 
it,  they  call  the  village  which  grows  up  there  a camp,  and  give  it  some 
name,  which  is  just  as  likely  to  be  absurd  as  it  is  to  be  appropriate. 
Dutch  Flat,  Red  Dog,  Bough  Town,  Buckskin,  and  dozens  of  other  com- 
ical names,  are  examples.  The  miners  hastily  throw  up  little  log  cab- 
ins, six  or  eight  logs  high,  covered  with  a roof  of  poles  and  dirt,  and 
having  nothing  better  than  the  hard-tramped  earth  for  a floor.  In  one 
end  is  the  fireplace  (the  chimney  is  outside,  like  that  of  a negro’s  hut 
in  the  South),  and  at  the  other  end  are  rough  bunks,  where  the  owner 
stuffs  in  some  long  grass  or  spruce  boughs  or  straw,  and  spreads  his  bed 
or  blankets.  These  rude  little  cabins  are  packed  close  together  up  and 
down  the  sides  of  the  gulch,  so  as  to  be  as  near  as  possible  to,  and  yet 
out  of  the  way  of,  the  mining,  and  they  give  a very  pretty  look  to  the 
wild  scenery  of  these  mountains.  As  the  camp  grows  larger  merchants 
go  there  with  goods  to  sell ; stage-coaches  begin  to  run  to  and  from 
older  settlements  ; shops,  hotels,  restaurants,  and  churches  are  built,  and 
the  camp  becomes  a town.  I have  known  of  such  a gulch-mining  settle- 
ment in  a single  year  converting  an  utter  wilderness  in  the  mountains, 
long  miles  away^from  anywhere,  into  a city  of  ten  thousand  people  or 
more.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  examples  of  this  was  the  settle- 
ment in  California  Gulch,  which  antedated  Leadville  by  almost  a score 
of  years  and  occupied  nearly  the  same  site.  I will  sketch  it. 

After  the  rush  to  Pike’s  Peak,  in  1859,  which  was  disappointing 
enough  to  the  majority  of  prospectors,  a number  of  men  pushed  west- 
ward. One  party  made  their  way  through  Ute  pass  into  the  grand 
meadows  of  South  Park,  and,  crossing,  pressed  on  to  the  Arkansas  val- 
ley, up  which  they  proceeded,  searching  unsuccessfully  for  gold,  until 
they  reached  a wide  plateai^  on  the  right  bank,  where  a beautiful  little 
stream  came  down.  Following  this  nearly  to  its  source,  along  what 
they  named  California  Gulch,  they  were  delighted  to  find  placers  of 


80 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


gold.  This  was  in  the  midsummer  of  i860;  and  before  the  close  of  the 
hot  weather  ten  thousand  people  had  emigrated  to  the  Arkansas,  and 
$2,500,000  had  been  washed  out,  one  of  the  original  explorers  taking 
twenty-nine  pounds  of  gold  away  with  him  in  the  fall,  besides  selling 
for  $500  a “worked-out”  claim  from  which  $15,000  was  taken  within 
the  next  three  months.  Since  that  time  this  same  “ exhausted”  gravel 
is  being  washed  a third  or  fourth  time  with  profit. 

The  settlement  consisted  of  one  long  street  only,  and  houses  even 
of  logs  were  so  few  that  the  camp  was  known  as  “ Bough  Town,”  every- 
body abandoning  the  wicky-ups  in  winter,  when  the  placers  could  not 
be  worked,  and  retreating  to  Denver.  During  the  summer,  however. 
Bough  Town  witnessed  some  lively  scenes.  One  day  a stranger  came 
riding  up  the  street  on  a gallop,  splashing  the  mud  everywhere,  only  to 
be  unceremoniously  halted  by  a rough-looking  customer  who  covered 
him  with  a revolver,  and  said,  “ Hold  on,  there,  stranger!  When  ye  go 
through  this  yere  town,  go  slow,  so  folks  kin  take  a look  at  ye  1” 

No  money  circulated  there;  gold-dust  served  all  the  purposes  of 
trade,  and  every  merchant,  saloon-keeper,  and  gambler  had  his  scales. 
The  phrase  was  not  “ Cash  up,”  but  “ Down  with  your  dust ;”  and  when 
a man’s  buckskin  wallet  was  empty  he  knew  where  to  fill  it  again. 
It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  placers  were  all  staked  off,  and  the 
claims  began  to  be  exhausted.  Then  the  town  so  dwindled  that  in 
half  a dozen  years  only  a score  were  left  of  the  turbulent  multitude 
who,  in  i860  and  1861,  made  the  gulch  noisy  with  magical  gains  and 
unheeded  loss.  Among  the  last  of  their  acts  was  to  pull  down  the  old 
log  gambling -hall,  and  to  pan  two  thousand  dollars  out  of  the  dirt 
where  the  gamblers  had  dropped  the  coveted  grains.  This  done,  every- 
body moved  elsewhere,  and  the  frightened  game  returned  to  thread  the 
aspen  groves  and  drink  at  the  again  translucent  streams  of  California 
Gulch,  where  eight  million  dollars  had  been  sifted  from  the  pebbles. 

Not  all  the  camps  have  so  fleeting  a life.  Almost  all  the  large  cities 
and  towns  of  California  and  the  Rocky  Mountains  began  as  placer- 
camps.  But  it  usually  happened  that,  about  the  time  it  was  found  that 
all  the  gold  in  the  gravel-bar  had  been  washed  out,  and  people  had 
begun  to  leave  the  place,  some  shrewd  rich  man,  or  company  of  rich 
men,  bought  out  several  claims,  until  they  had  a considerable  area  of 
the  gravel-bank  in  their  possession.  Then  they  erected  machinery,  and 
pursued  what  is  known  as  hydraulic  mining;  for  they  could  make  money 
by  this  means  out  of  gravel  too  poor  in  gold  to  pay  for  panning  or 
cradling,  according  to  the  gold-diggers’  high  ideas  of  profit. 


HYDRAULIC  METHODS. 


81 


In  hydraulic  mining  a stream  of  water  is  brought  into  the  mine 
through  iron  pipes,  from  so  high  a source  as  to  give  immense  force  to 
it  when  it  leaps  out  of  the  nozzle.  The  fall  must  be  from  one  hundred 
and  fifty  to  two  hundred  feet,  usually,  to  furnish  the  necessary  “ head,” 
and  upon  the  power  which  the  water  has  depends  the  success  of  the 
enterprise.  The  pipe  consists  of  stout  iron,  and  is  a foot  or  so  in  di- 
ameter. It  is  made^ 
up  of  sections,  each 
about  twelve  feet  long, 
and  therefore  can  be 
lengthened  or  short- 
ened, bent  or  moved 
about,  as  required. 

Into  its  upper  end, 
away  up  on  the  steep 
hill-side,  flows  the  wa- 
ter of  the  high -line 
ditch,  or  perhaps  the 
current  of  a mount- 
ain snow-fed  torrent. 

At  the  lower  end  of 
the  pipe  is  arranged 
a very  strong  iron 
mouth-piece,  like  the 
nozzle  of  a steam  fire-engine,  only  three  times  as  big,  which  swings 
upon  compound  joints  in  its  attachment  to  the  pipe,  so  that  it  can  be 
moved  in  any  direction  — upward,  downward,  or  sideways.  So  much 
for  the  water-power  or  hydraulic  machinery.  Now,  observe  how  they 
employ  it. 

Down  at  the  edge  of  the  creek  there  is  room  enough  to  lay  their 
pipes  and  set  up  the  “ Little  Giant,”  as  they  call  their  nozzle.  In  the 
creek-bed  a little  distance  below  has  already  been  built  a great  sluice-box, 
sometimes  a hundred  yards  or  more  long,  and  much  more  capacious 
than  the  sluices  used  in  hand -work.  Leading  down  to  this,  a steep 
channel  is  arranged  from  the  gravel-bank,  and  all  is  ready.  The  flood- 
gates are  opened,  the  big  nozzle  is  pointed  straight  at  the  bank,  the 
water  resounds  through  the  humming  pipes  and  rushes  forth  from  the 
nozzle  in  a solid,  straight,  ice-white  beam,  which  bores  its  way  into  the 
bank  and  tumbles  the  bowlders  out  very  much  as  a steady  stream  of 
cannon-balls  would  do  it.  It  is  great  sport  to  watch  this  fierce  attack 


82 


KNOCKING  .’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


of  SO  much  water,  remembering  that  it  is  only  its  weight,  and  the  force 
it  accumulates  in  its  eagerness  to  escape  from  the  close  pipes,  which 
is  hurrying  it  on  at  this  fearful  speed.  The  bank  crumbles,  and  bits  of 
hard  clay,  small  stones,  and  fragments  of  petrified  wood  are  tossed  high 
in  the  broad  fountain  which  flies  backward  from  the  point  where  the 
water  strikes,  and  falls  with  a constant  roar  and  rattle.  The  white, 
mist-hidden  beam  of  water  bores  its  way  deeper  and  deeper,  the  mass 
of  foam  and  broken  earth  changes  and  grows  as  the  face  of  the  cliff 
and  the  direction  of  the  nozzle  are  changed,  and  so  the  Little  Giant 
rapidly  eats  his  way  into  the  gravel,  and  at  the  same  time  sweeps 
the  loose  material  into  the  sluices  by  the  very  flood  which  his  energy 
creates. 

I used  to  delight  to  watch  this  work  down  below  Leadville,  where 
the  same  wilderness  of  pebbles  and  bowlders  was  being  gone  over  that 
were  tossed  about  by  thousands  of  eager  hands  a score  of  years  ago. 
It  was  fascinating  to  note  the  fearful  power  and  effect  of  this  concen- 
trated beam  of  water,  with  no  propulsive  force  behind  it  but  its  own 
weight ; and  none  of  the  romance  was  destroyed  in  finding  that  here 
and  there  the  water  cut  down  into  some  cabin — a relic  of  Bough  Town 
that  had  become  utterly  buried  in  debris. 

While  all  this  picturesque  enginery  is  in  operation  above  them, 
down  along  the  rough  channel  stand  men  aiding  the  separation  of 
the  gold.  They  are  picking  the  large,  worthless  stones  out  of  the 
stream,  and  piling  them  in  an  out-of-the-way  place  ; they  are  walking 
about  knee -deep  in  the  raging,  mud -laden  flood,  continually  poking 
out  the  heavier  rocks,  and  stirring  up  the  bottom  with  shovels,  in  or- 
der that  no  gold  may  settle  there.  Through  the  stout  sluice  leaps  a 
swift  and  noisy  current,  bearing  in  its  thick  waters  thousands  of  minute 
flakes  of  gold,  with  now  and  then  a nugget.  These  Quickly  sink  to  the 
bottom,  and  are  caught  by  the  riffles : so  that  the  clean-up  of  an  hydrau- 
lic sluice  ought  to  be,  and  usually  is,  very  rich,  for  a hundred  times  more 
earth  is  sent  through  it  each  day  under  the  tearing  strength  of  the 
Little  Giant  than  ever  shovels  alone  could  handle.  Moreover,  it  often 
happens  that  there  are  five  or  six  pipes  and  nozzles  firing  at  the  same 
bank.  Then  the  destruction  is  very  rapid,  great  masses  of  gravel  being 
quickly  undermined,  and  falling  with  a noise  like  thunder. 

The  gold  is  collected  from  the  sluice  by  shutting  off  the  water, 
taking  out  the  riffles,  and  scraping  the  bottom.  Some  quicksilver  has 
usually  been  sprinkled  in  the  sluice  previously,  and  more  is  now  added, 
the  better  to  collect  the  gold,  for  which  it  has  a strong  attraction.  The 


PROFIT  AND  LOSS  OF  GOLD-DIGGING. 


83 


union  of  the  two  metals  forms  what  is  known  as  an  amalgam,  and  there 
are  two  ways  of  separating  them  again.  If  the  miners  do  not  care  to 
save  the  quicksilver  (which  is  the  same  thing  as  the  mercury  of  our 
thermometers),  they  put  the  amalgam  in  a bag,  and  strain  out  the 
quicksilver  by  squeezing,  just  as  you  press  the  juice  out  of  grapes  when 
jelly  is  to  be  made.  Then  the  gold  and  the  trifle  of  quicksilver  remain- 
ing is  placed  upon  a shovel  and  held  over  the  fire  until  all  the  white 
metal  passes  off  in  vapor. 

If,  however,  it  is  desired  to  save  the  mercury,  the  amalgam,  as  soon 
as  it  is  cleaned  out  of  the  sluice,  is  put  into  a chemist’s  retort  and 
heated.  The  mercury  turns  to  vapor,  which  rises  through  a tube  pass- 
ing at  a short  distance  through  a box  of  ice  or  cold  water,  and  is  there 
condensed  or  turned  back  to  liquid  again,  when  it  runs  into  a jar  and 
is  ready  to  be  used  a second  time.  In  this  way  the  same  mercury  may 
be  used  over  and  over  again,  with  but  little  loss. 

Sometimes  several  thousand  dollars  are  the  profit  of  a single  week 
of  hydraulic  mining,  but  several  hundreds  would  be  a more  ordinary 
estimate. 

Conducted  on  whatever  system,  gold-mining  is  not  always  so  profit- 
able a business  as  it  seems  at  first  glance.  After  all,  an  ounce  of  gold 
is  worth  only  so  much,  and  a pound  only  twelve  times  as  much.  To 
get  a pound  of  gold  requires  much  hard  work,  and  a considerable  out- 
lay of  money  for  food,  for  wear  and  tear  of  clothes,  for  rent  of  water, 
for  purchase  of  machinery,  etc.,  etc.  Sometimes  the  gains  are  enor- 
mous, but  it  is  only  a few  who  have  become  rich  in  gold-digging  out 
of  thousands  who  have  struggled  and  failed.  Nor,  exciting  and  roman- 
tic as  it  seems  to  live  in  this  wild,  out-door,  picnic  style,  and  to  dig  the 
shining,  precious,  poetic  mineral  out  of  the  ignoble  gravel  where  it  has 
so  long  lain  neglected,  is  it  altogether  enjoyable  work.  You  must  be 
almost  continually  wet,  and  the  water  in  the  mountains  is  cold  ; you 
must  handle  all  day  long  rough  stones,  heave  huge  bowlders,  and  shovel 
heavy  dirt;  you  must  swing  the  pick  till  your  back  aches,  and  waggle 
that  rusty  gold-pan  till  your  arms  grow  lame  and  your  fingers  are  sore, 
while  the  sun  beats  down  straight  and  hot,  or  the  chill  wind  cuts 
through  your  wet  garments ; you  must  work  early  and  late,  hard  and 
fast,  often  defending  your  property  by  a little  war,  if  you  would  equal 
your  neighbors  and  hold  your  claim. 

Then  see  how  the  gold-miner  lives.  His  cabin  is  low  and  dark  and 
dirty.  The  climate  is  too  severe  and  the  ground  too  rocky  for  him  to 
raise  a garden  if  he  cared  to,  and  he  has  no  time  for  such  pleasantries. 


84 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


His  hard  work  permits  him  to  wear  none  but  the  very  roughest  of 
leathern  and  woollen  clothes,  and  his  fare  is  of  the  plainest  kind,  such 
as  he  himself  can  cook.  I have  known  a placer-camp  to  be  without  a 
potato,  or  a drink  of  milk,  or  a bit  of  butter  for  nine  months  at  a time ; 
but  nowadays  miners  live  somewhat  better  than  they  used  to,  because 
grocers  have  learned  how  to  pack  food  in  such  a shape  that  it  will  keep 
well,  and  can  be  carried  far  into  the  mountains. 

The  amusements  of  a mining-camp  are  almost  all  connected  with 
liquor  and  gambling.  It  is  in  such  dissipations  that  gold-miners  spend 
nearly  all  the  great  wealth  they  get,  so  that  often  they  will  make  and 
lose  a dozen  large  fortunes  in  as  many  years.  There  are  some,  of 


THE  PROSPECTOR  AND  HIS  BURRO. 


course,  who  save,  hiding  away  their  little  buckskin  bags  of  gold-dust ; 
but  they  are  careful  not  to  let  any  one  know  of  it,  for  if  they  did 
they  would  very  likely  be  robbed,  and  perhaps  shot,  by  some  despera- 
do. Gold-digging  is  hard,  dangerous,  and  life-wearing  work,  yet  always 
fascinating. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  ask  how  the  gold  got  mixed  up  in  the 


GEOLOGICAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  PLACERS. 


85 


gravel  ? Perhaps  I can  give  my  younger  readers  a hint  as  to  how  to 
study  the  matter  out  fully. 

The  gravel-banks  were  piled  in  the  places  where  they  are  now  found 
either  by  the  streams,  which  formerly  were  vastly  larger  than  they  now 
are,  or  else  by  great  moving  masses  of  ice,  called  glaciers.  If  you  should 
read  Professor  Tyndall’s  little  book,  ‘‘  Forms  of  Water,”  you  would  get 
a very  good  idea  of  this  ice -power,  and  much  entertainment  besides. 
Whatever  the  way,  the  broken  fragments  of  the  mountain,  which  the 
action  of  the  atmosphere  and  trickling  water  had  undermined,  frost  had 
cracked  off,  or  lightning  had  splintered  to  pieces  during  thousands  of 
years,  became  rolled  down  the  bed  of  the  ancient  river  and  rounded 
into  pebbles  and  cobble-stones,  just  as  is  still  being  done  in  the  bed 
of  every  rapid  stream. 

Now,  scattered  all  through  the  granite  rock  of  which  these  tower- 
ing Rocky  Mountains  are  built  up,  are  veins  or  streaks  of  quartz — a 
white,  crystalline  rock  in  which  the  gold  is  found,  though  it  by  no 
means  follows  that  every  quartz-vein  carries  the  royal  metal.  When, 
by  the  action  of  frost,  rain,  lightning,  and  ice,  the  rocks  are  shattered 
and  rolled  down  the  bed  of  the  stream,  the  quartz  goes  along  with  the 
granite,  and  of  course,  if  there  is  any  gold  there,  it  also  is  torn  out  and 
grinds  along  with  the  rest,  until  it  finds  a chance  to  settle  and  help 
build  up  the  bar  that,  ages  afterward,  our  prospectors  seek  and  dig  into. 
Therefore  placer-gold  is  sometimes  known  as  “ floated  ” gold  ; and  high 
in  the  range,  at  the  head  of  a gulch  which  contains  good  gravel,  are  to 
be  found  quartz-veins  whence  the  riches  below  have  come,  and  where 
the  undiscovered  gold  may  be  dug  out  and  separated  from  the  mother- 
rock  by  the  various  processes  known  under  the  head  of  quartz-mining, 
which  are  far  more  expensive  and  complicated  than  anything  done  in 
working  the  placers.  It  is  the  general  belief  that  in  the  United  States 
the  placers  have  been  pretty  well  exhausted,  and  that  most  of  the  gold 
of  the  future  is  to  be  expected  from  the  quartz  lodes,  and  sought  for 
hundreds  of  feet  underground,  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains. 


86 


KNOCKING  'ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XII. 

Well,  to  go  back  to  my  trip  to  Granite,  I may  dismiss  the  matter 
by  saying  that  I got  no  letters  for  myself  or  anybody  else,  much  to 
our  disgust.  It  was  nearly  four  weeks  since  we  had  had  a word  of 
news  either  from  home  or  from  head-quarters. 

Starting  away  early,  I rode  about  fifty  miles  before  night.  It  was 
almost  all  accomplished  by  keeping  my  poor  tired  horse  at  a dog-trot — 
a pace  which  is  less  than  a trot  and  more  than  a walk.  All  his  muscles 
seemed  lax,  and  he  went  on,  like  a machine,  at  about  five  miles  an  hour, 
without  any  apparent  effort.  Now  and  then  he  would  rouse  into  a gal- 
lop, and  at  noon  he  had  an  hour’s  rest. 

The  next  fortnight  was  not  productive  of  many  adventures  or  note- 
worthy incidents,  though  it  contained  plenty  of  hard  work.  Our  track 
led  across  into  the  head  of  the  San  Luis  Park,  and  so  on  down  to  Sa- 
guache— a Mexican  town  near  the  Rio  Grande.  There  was  a pleasant 
bit  of  natural  history  picked  up  along  here,  though. 

The  plover  of  these  interior  valleys  does  not  seem  to  care  for 
marshes,  like  the  most  of  his  race,  but  haunts  the  dry  uplands.  It  is 
closely  related  to  the  golden  plover,  and  is  named  in  books  y^gialiiis 
montamis.  (See  cut,  p.  6o.)  A flock  of  these  plovers  dropped  down  on 
the  plain  one  day,  and  I determined  to  get  them  for  dinner,  if  possible. 
Jumping  off  my  horse  — who  would  stand  stock-still  wherever  I left 
him — I approached  to  where  they  had  dropped,  and  finally  caught  sight 
of  one  by  distinguishing  the  dark  dot  of  its  eye  against  the  light-tinted 
surface  of  the  ground.  Even  then  I really  could  not  follow  with  my 
eye  the  outline  of  the  bird’s  body,  so  closely  did  the  colors  of  the  plu- 
mage agree  with  the  white  sand  and  dry  grass.  I shot  it ; then  found 
another,  shot  that ; and  so  on  until  all  were  killed,  none  of  them  flying 
away,  because  their  “ instinct,”  or  habit  of  thought,  had  taught  them 
that  when  danger  threatened  they  must  invariably  keep  quiet ; move- 
ment would  be  exposure,  and  exposure  would  be  fatal.  I and  my  gun 
formed  a danger  they  had  had  no  experience  of,  and  here  their  inherit- 
ed instinct  ” was  at  fault.  When  I had  shot  them  I was  unable,  with 


THE  SANGRE  DE  CHRISTO  RANGE. 


87 


the  most  careful  searching,  to  find  all  the  dead  birds.  Hunting  for  a 
black  pin  on  a mottled  carpet,  or  a sixpence  in  a skating-rink,  were 
an  easy  task  compared  with  finding  those  color- protected  plovers  on 
the  San  Luis  barrens. 

Several  days  gave  no  special  incident  that  I remember.  The  Sangre 
de  Christo  range,  along  the  western  side  of  which  our  road  led  us  to 
Saguache,  is,  perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  in  Colorado,  as  we  viewed  it, 
because  the  range  presents  a perfectly  straight  line  of  the  most  lofty 
and  shapely  peaks — blue  triangles,  with  white  tips.  Down  at  the  south- 
ern extremity  the  splendid  rank  terminates  in  the  Sierra  Blanca— king 


FORT  GARLAND  AND  SIERRA  BLANCA. 


of  Colorado’s  peaks  in  respect  to  height.  Afterward  I went  all  round 
its  base,  but  never  scaled  its  almost  inaccessible  summit,  mindful  of  the 
terrible  dangers  and  suffering  which  our  party  encountered  who  meas- 
ured it.  Among  other  things,  they  were  obliged,  in  order  to  reach  the 
topmost  pinnacle,  to  creep  for  a long  distance  upon  a ridge  of  rock  fall- 
ing on  either  side  to  frightful  depths,  which  was  so  narrow  and  sharp 
that  in  many  places  it  was  possible  to  sit  astride  it. 


88 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES, 


From  Saguache — an  old  Mexican  village,  inhabited  chiefly  by  cattle- 
men and  shepherds  whose  herds  range  in  the  Rio  Grande  valley — the 
trail  took  us  over  an  exceedingly  water-worn  and  desolate  region,  and 
then,  through  the  beautiful  pass  of  Cochetopa  creek,  into  the  valley  of 


ALONG  THE  COCHETOPA. 


the  Los  Pinos.  Here  there  was  the  Southern  Agency  of  the  Utes,  and 
we  came  suddenly,  at  a turn  in  the  road,  to  a view  of  an  immense  col- 
lection of  Indian  lodges,  with  all  their  attendant  herds  of  horses  and 
crowds  of  women  and  children,  spread  below  us  on  the  green  river-plain. 
The  sight  of  six  hundred  lodges  and  three  thousand  savages,  all  togeth- 
er, was  to  me  a most  novel  and  inspiring  one. 

Though  we  passed  on  to  a point  near  the  Agency  house  to  fix  our 
camp,  yet,  as  we  stayed  here  a week,  I had  abundant  opportunities  to 
visit  the  red  men  and  become  familiar  with  their  summer  home-life. 

This  Agency — which,  I believe,  has  lately  been  removed — is  on  the 
direct  trail  from  Saguache  to  Antelope  Park  and  the  San  Juan  region, 
to  which  we  were  bound.  It  is  said  to  have  come  here  by  accident,  and 
the  story  goes  that  the  officer  who  had  charge  of  locating  the  Agency 
was  instructed  to  put  it  on  the  Rio  Los  Pinos,  one  hundred  miles  or 
so  south-west  of  here ; but  he  said,  “ Put  it  anywhere,  and  call  it  Los 
Pinos.”  So  here  it  is. 

The  valley  of  the  Cochetopa  is  eight  or  ten  miles  long  at  this  point, 
and  three  or  four  wide.  Being  full  of  good  grass,  and  surrounded  by 


OURAY  AND  HIS  UTES. 


89 


high,  timbered  hills,  it  has  always  been  a favorite  summer  halting-place 
for  the  Indians,  and  here  Ouray  (I  spell  it  as  has  been  the  custom,  but 
it  is  pronounced  Oo-ray),  the  chief  of  the  seven  tribes  that  formed  the 
Ute  confederation,  had  his  head -quarters.  Ouray  was  a remarkable 
man,  and  I am  glad  I knew  him  ; but  there  proved  finally  to  be  too 
many  rascals  in  his  nation  for  the  strength  of  his  influence. 

It  is  difficult,  of  course,  to  estimate  a man  in  his  position  by  the 
standards  we  apply  to  civilized  leaders ; but  it  seemed  to  me  that  his 
hold  upon  his  tribe  was  always  precarious,  and  that  he  accomplished  his 
ends,  when  he  did  succeed,  by  artful  devices,  patience,  and  the  force  of 
the  side  he  took,  rather  than  by  any  power  as  a ruler.  He  was  not 
wholly  popular  with  this  federation,  though  followed  faithfully  by  his 
own  tribe — the  Weeminoochees.  The  Northern  bands,  which  had  their 
head-quarters  at  the  White  River  Agency,  always  looked  upon  Douglas 
as  their  chief,  though  acknowledging  the  nominal  supremacy  of  Ouray, 
since  he  had  been  recognized  at  Washington  as  “head  chief.” 

Ouray  continually  lost  popularity  with  a large  number  of  his  men  by 
his  persistent  endeavor  to  keep  peace  with  the  whites,  to  prevent  war 
of  any  sort,  in  short,  and  his  steady  advocacy  of  the  principle  that  the 
prosperity  of  the  tribe  lay  in  their  adapting  themselves  to  the  manners 
of  the  white  men.  He  was  the  apostle  of  progress  and  liberality  among 
a people  too  thoroughly  cast  in  its  traditions,  too  inflexibly  moulded, 
to  willingly  consent.  This  appeared  very  strongly  in  several  incidents 
which  occurred  while  I was  at  the  Agency. 

The  division  of  the  Survey  that  I accompanied  at  this  time  was 
the  photographic  party,  under  the  charge  of  Mr.  W.  H.  Jackson,  whose 
beautiful  and  highly  artistic  pictures  have  done  more,  perhaps,  than 
anything  else  to  make  the  Survey  widely  and  attractively  known.  Our 
purpose  was  to  photograph  portraits  of  Indians  and  scenes  in  their  life. 

Ouray  was  informed  of  this,  by  a visit  paid  him  at  his  cabin  at  the 
Agency,  where  he  lived  with  his  pretty  wife  in  an  attempt  at  civiliza- 
tion, and  he  acquiesced  heartily,  promising  to  sit  himself,  and  have  his 
wife  and  his  brother-in-law  (I  believe  he  was)  also  sit,  with  all  their  best 
regimentals  on.  That  afternoon,  therefore,  there  was  a large  gathering 
on  the  veranda  of  the  house  of  the  Agent,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bond,  a Unita- 
rian clergyman  from  Boston. 

Ouray  ordinarily  wore  a civilized  dress  of  black  broadcloth,  and  even 
boots,  though  he  had  never  cut  off  his  long  hair,  which  he  still  bound  up 
in  two  queues,  Indian  fashion.  But  now  he  came  out  in  buckskin  cos- 
tume of  native  cut,  full  and  flowing,  with  long  fringes  trailing  from  his 

7 


90 


KNOCKING  'ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


arms  and  shoulders,  skirts,  and  leggings,  until  they  dragged  upon  the 
ground.  These  garments  were  beaded  in  the  most  profuse  and  expen- 
sive manner ; and  as  he  gravely  strode  through  the  circle  of  spectators 
and  seated  himself  in  a dignified  and  proud  way,  his  many  medals  flash- 
ing, he  looked  every  inch  a monarch. 

His  wife,  Sowabeeah,^^  was  that  day  about  the  most  prepossessing 
Indian  woman  I ever  saw,  and  Ouray  was  immensely  proud  of  her.  She 
evidently  had  prepared  with  great  care  for  this  event,  yet  at  the  last 
was  very  timid  about  taking  her  place  before  the  camera;  but  the  en- 
couragement of  her  husband  and  assistance  of  Mrs.  Bond  soon  overcame 
her  scruples,  and  she  sat  down  as  full  of  dimpling  smiles  as  the  veriest 
bride.  The  doeskin  of  which  her  dress  was  made  was  almost  as  white 
as  cotton,  and  nearly  as  soft  as  silk.  From  every  edge  and  seam  hung 
thick  white  fringes,  twelve  or  fifteen  inches  long,  while  a pretty  trim- 
ming of  bead-work  and  porcupine-quill  embroidery  set  off  a costume 
which  cost  Ouray  not  less  than  $125. 

The  third  negative  made  was  that  of  the  brother-in-law,  and  chief 
medicine-man  of  the  tribe,  whose  dress  was  more  resplendent  than  even 
his  royal  brother’s,  being  almost  wholly  covered  with  intricate  patterns 
of  bead-work.  He  was  a tall,  straight,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  and  had 
not  an  unpleasant  face,  but  it  was  thoroughly  painted  in  vermilion  and 
yellow — a bit  of  savage  full-dress  which  Ouray  and  his  wife,  with  liberal 
taste,  had  discarded.  The  most  noticeable  thing  about  this  great  sor- 
cerer, however,  was  the  evidence  of  his  prowess  in  war.  The  fringe  on 
his  coat,  from  shoulder  to  elbow,  consisted*  wholly  of  locks  of  human 
hair — the  black,  straight  hair  of  Arapahoe  and  Cheyenne  scalps  that 
had  fallen  to  his  valorous  share  in  battle.  The  heart  he  wore  upon  his 
sleeve  was  a dauntless  one. 

We  made  good  pictures  of  all  three  of  these,  singly  and  in  groups, 
and  had  much  fun  out  of  it ; but  the  consequences  were  dire. 

At  the  conclusion  I sat  on  the  chief’s  porch,  and  asked  him  some 
questions  as  to  the  origin  of  the  Ute  nation.  Ouray  told  me  that  they 
first  occupied  a little  district  at  the  southern  end  of  the  Uncompahgre 
mountains,  about  the  sources  of  the  Rio  San  Juan  and  Rio  Uncom- 
pahgre, where,  according  to  tradition,  they  were  without  horses,  had  no 
arms  other  than  bows  and  arrows,  and  used  stone  implements  exclusive- 


* I learn,  too  late  to  ascertain  the  real  fact  of  the  case,  that  possibly  I am  wrong 
in  this  name;  or,  at  any  rate,  that  she  had  another  name  by  which  she  was  more 
widely  known  beyond  the  Agency. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  UTES. 


91 


ly.  I asked  him  many  questions  about  the  method  of  making  the  stone 
tools,  but  got  no  satisfactory  answers.  After  the  advent  of  the  Span- 
iards, who  introduced  metals,  the  use  of  weapons  and  implements  of 
stone  gradually  declined,  until  soon  they  wholly  disappeared.  Having 
only  bows  and  arrows,  no  horses  or  dogs,  and  yet  trusting  to  the  chase 
for  their  maintenance,  they  secured  all  their  wild  game  by  driving  it 
into  ambush  along  the  runways.  They  had  at  this  primitive  time  no 
goats,  sheep,  or  cattle ; nor  was  there  any  current  means  of  exchange, 
legal  tender,  or  money,  unless  the  buckskin  in  which  the  medicine-men 
were  paid  might  be  called  such.  This  pay  was  for  teaching  the  young 
men  traditions  and  knowledge  of  national  import,  in  addition  to  the 
regular  family  instruction  practised  by  the  parents. 

The  only  enemies  of  the  tribe  at  this  time  were  the  Indians  of  the 
plains,  and  some  mountain  tribes  to  the  northward.  From  these  they 
were  constantly  obliged  to  defend  themselves ; but  they  made  few  ag- 
gressive raids  beyond  their  own  narrow  limits.  South  of  them  were  the 
Jicarrilla  Apaches,  with  whom  they  were  always  on  friendly  terms,  and 
even  intermarried.  But,  curiously  enough,  it  was  always  an  Apache 
girl  marrying  a Ute,  and  never  a young  Ute  girl  giving  her  hand  to  an 
Apache  brave.  There  was  no  law  about  it — only  usage  had  confirmed 
a custom.  (It  is  a common  feature  of  Indian  society,  from  the  Atlantic 
to  the  Pacific,  that  members  of  the  same  band  or  tribal  family  shall  not 
marry ; but  I do  not  remember  to  have  seen  such  a secondary  fact  as  the^ 
above-mentioned  recorded  elsewhere.)  Through  the  Apaches  the  Utes 
communicated  with  the  Spaniards,  who  had  already  settled  south  and’ 
west  of  there,  in  what  is  now  eastern  Arizona,  and  from  them  obtained 
a few  horses  and  dogs,  which  by  being  carefully  bred  soon  multiplied 
until  they  had  accumulated  a sufficient  stock.  This  was  the  first  step 
toward  their  subsequent  prosperity. 

They  now  changed  their  attitude  of  defence  to  one  of  offence,  and 
pushed  the  war  hotly  against  their  old  enemies,  refusing  to  fight  the 
Spaniards,  as  nearly  all  of  the  village  tribes  south  of  them  were  doing. 
It  was  in  these  raids  that  they  first  obtained,  and  learned  to  use,  fire- 
arms, capturing  them  from  the  plains  Indians  who  had  been  visited  by 
traders.  Gaining  in  strength,  numbers,  and  courage  with  new  victories 
through  long  years  and  weary  battles,  they  finally  drove  their  foes  east- 
ward to  the  open  plains,  and  were  possessors  of  all  the  territory  now 
included  in  Utah  and  Colorado,  between  the  Wahsatch  mountains  and 
the  main  range. 

Of  course,  it  is  difficult  to  tell  how  long  ago  all  this  happened  ; but 


92 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


that  the  main  account  is  a true  history  of  the  tribe  I have  little  doubt. 
The  rest  we  can  form  a definite  idea  of,  for  Ouray  tells  me  that  he  can 
remember  when  the  Utes  first  met  the  white  man  (that  is,  Americans — 
the  Spaniards  had  been  seen  long  before),  in  the  vicinity  of  Del  Norte, 
on  the  Rio  Grande.  His  father,  Salvador,  was  then  chief  of  the  tribe, 
and  his  mother  an  Apache.  These  white  men  were,  of  course,  traders; 
but  they  were  soon  followed  by  others,  and  the  Utes  soon  became  fa- 
miliar and  friendly  with  them;  and,  Ouray  added,  “ It  is  their  boast  to- 
day that  a Ute  in  good  standing  never  killed  a white  man.”  I knew 
that  that  was  not  quite  true,  but  I did  not  argue  the  point  just  then. 
Now,  since  the  White  River  massacre,  and  several  other  bloody  scenes, 
the  assertion  is  farther  than  ever  from  the  facts. 

The  head  men  of  the  tribe  are  constantly  watching  the  behavior 
of  the  boys  and  young  men.  When  they  see  one  who  is  intelligent 
and  progressive,  whose  ideas  are  in  conformity  with  the  policy  of  the 
nation,  and  who  shows  a capacity  for  carrying  on  their  affairs  with 
credit  and  advantage,  he  is  looked  upon  as  a captain  without  farther 
ceremony.  From  the  captains  the  head  chief  is  elected.  Such  a man 
was  young  Ouray,  and  he  at  last  became  chief,  with  the  consent  of  all 
the  tribe,  altogether  through  his  own  merits  and  not  because  his  father 
was  chief,  for  no  hereditary  honors  are  recognized.  He  first  succeeded 
Benito  as  war- chief  in  1863,  perhaps  at  the  nomination  and  certainly 
with  the  sanction  of  the  United  States  Government,  which  had  become 
convinced  of  his  ability  during  the  negotiation  of  the  treaty  at  that 
time.  This  election  and  the  terms  of  the  treaty  together  so  dissatis- 
fied old  Nuvava,  head  chief,  that,  with  all  his  band,  he  left  the  South- 
ern Utes  and  reported  thereafter  at  the  White  River  Agency.  Sub- 
sequently there  was  a split  in  his  band,  and  some  three  hundred  and 
fifty,  under  the  leadership  of  Peeah,  went  to  Denver  to  receive  their 
supplies.  It  was  this  same  rascal,  Peeah,  who  later  got  us  into  trouble. 

The  day  after  Ouray  was  photographed  was  “ issuing  day  ” at  the 
Agency,  and  we  were  down  bright  and  early  to  view  it.  Beginning  at 
sunrise,  parties  of  Indians,  with  their  wives  and  little  ones,  were  to  be 
seen  riding  leisurely  over  the  rolling  plain  up  from  the  village  about 
six  miles  away.  There  was  a wagon-road  down  there,  but  most  of  them 
came  a straighter  way  by  the  trails,  half  a dozen  of  which,  like  so  many 
cow-paths,  ran  side  by  side.  So  they  poured  in,  until  by  nine  o’clock 
nearly  the  whole  village  was  there — perhaps  two  thousand  men,  women, 
and  children.  They  loitered  about  the  court -yard  within  the  quad- 


CHIEFS— STATUESQUE  AND  OTHERWISE. 


93 


angle  of  the  Agency,  swarmed  inside  the  buildings  and  at  the  trader’s 
store,  and  loafed  in  the  stables.  Finally,  old  Shavano,  the  war-captain 
of  the  tribe — but,  ’pon  my  word,  he  was  the  mildest  looking,  most  grand- 
fatherly  savage  I ever  saw  in  my  life  ! — appeared  on  the  ridge-pole  of 
the  government’s  storehouse,  and  struck  an  attitude  of  great  dignity, 
with  his  blanket  impressively  looped  up  about  him,  like  a regular 
bronze  statue  in  a cocked-hat  and  feather.  Whether  we  speak  in  loud 
tones  because  we  have  acquired  the  habit  of  doing  so  through  living 
in*  the  midst  of  the  incessant  racket  of  our  manifold  industries ; and 
whether,  conversely,  it  is  because  the  savage  dwells  in  such  mighty 
silence,  that  he  speaks  in  tones  so  moderate,  I leave  for  your  specula- 
tion : but  I know  that  one  of  the  most  noticeable  traits  in  all  the 
dozens  of  Indian  tribes  I have  met  has  been,  that  their  conversation 
was  almost  in  whispers.  I have  often  wondered  how  it  was  possible 
for  the  person  addressed  to  hear,  yet  he  never  failed  to  do  so  ; and 
now,  when  Shavano  gave  out  the  directions  for  forming  the  array  to 
receive  the  annuity  goods,  he  did  it  in  a tone  which  I had  to  strain  my 
ears  to  catch  even  the  sound  of,  yet  which  was  understood  in  every 
word  by  all  the  Utes  far  and  near.  So  much  sharper  are  savage  ears 
than  civilized.  Having  referred  to  the  captains,  sub -chiefs,  and  head 
chiefs,  it  may  be  a good  place  in  which  to  explain  their  respective  posi- 
tions and  duties,  while  the  women  and  children,  with  much  merriment, 
are  seating  themselves  in  three  large  semicircles,  one  behind  the  other, 
converging  toward  the  storehouse  door,  where  the  Agent  and  his  assist- 
ants were  about  to  dispense  the  goods. 

When  anything  of  national  interest  is  to  be  deliberated,  as  the  open- 
ing of  a war,  notice  is  given  and  a general  mass-meeting  called  of  all 
the  men  in  the  tribe.  There  all  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  matter  are 
discussed  and  weighed  against  one  another.  The  matter  is  then  re- 
ferred to  a council  of  the  aged  and  influential  men  of  the  tribe,  many 
of  whom  have  some  authority  and  are  termed  sub-chiefs,  who  render 
a decision  and  arrange  a mode  of  action,  the  execution  of  which  be- 
longs to  the  captains.  In  these  deliberations  no  woman  has  any  voice; 
or  if  by  chance  the  sage  advice  of  any  woman  is  heeded  the  source  is 
never  recognized.  When  they  go  to  war  everything  is  in  common. 
All  the  plans,  tactics,  and  strategy  to  be  employed  are  thoroughly  un- 
derstood by  each  man,  who,  acting  on  this  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
plans,  looks  out  carefully  that  his  own  share  of  the  work  is  well  done. 
Thus  all  details  of  organization  are  rendered  unnecessary,  and  the  act- 
ual authority  of  the  captains  is  so  small  as  to  amount  to  nothing.  It 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


94: 

had  been  learned  from  the  experience  of  wars  with  Indians  of  the 
plains  that  when  much  authority  is  delegated  to  one  man  he  is  likely 
to  abuse  it  for  his  own  personal  advantage ; and,  moreover,  that  jeal- 
ousy toward  him  is  sure  to  arise.  It  was  especially  pressed  upon  me  to 
observe  that  the  charge  brought  against  them  by  those  ignorant  of  their 
customs,  that  there  was  no  system  in  the  conduct  of  their  affairs,  and 
that  they  had  no  capability  of  organization,  was  untrue.  On  the  con- 
trary, their  customs  are  uniform  and  universally  respected,  and  they 
exhibit  in  their  leaders  just  as  much  capacity  for  government  as  do  any 
of  the  civilized  nations  of  the  earth.  The  only  difference,  the  chief  in- 
sisted, is,  that  civilization  presents  greater  complications.  Poor  old 
Ouray — he  is  dead  now,  after  an  administration  full  of  trouble!  Very 
likely  he  wished  his  capacity  for  government  a trifle  greater,  or  his 
“ complications  ” less. 

When  all  had  been  seated  and  were  quiet,  several  of  the  older  In- 
dians came  forward  to  help  distribute  the  flour,  beans,  coffee,  tobacco, 
and  whatever  else  was  given  out.  But  before  it  began  Shavano  (who 
had  remained  lofty  and  statuesque  on  the  ridge-pole)  said  something 
which  sent  a little  murmur  around  the  circle  and  caused  everybody  to 
turn  their  eyes  upward,  where  I now  descried  Mr.  Jackson  and  his  as- 
sistant perched  on  the  roof  of  a second  building,  with  their  camera 
aimed  at  the  expectant  crowd.  Shavano  held  up  a warning  hand,  as 
though  he  were  pronouncing  a benediction ; and  in  an  instant  it  was 
over,  and  the  distributing  began,  amid  great  excitement  and  unintelli- 
gible but  not  unmelodious  gabble. 

But  there  was  one  man  there  who  was  displeased  excessively  at 
this  trick  of  the  photographer,  and  proposed  to  put  a stop  to  such 
foolishness.  Meanwhile,  however,  he  had  some  fun  on  hand. 

As  soon  as  the  goods  had  been  pretty  well  given  out  the  male  In- 
dians threw  aside  their  blanket-robes,  mounted  their  ponies,  took  rifles 
and  revolvers  in  hand,  and  gathered  in  groups  about  the  great  gates  of 
the  corral.  Then  the  gates  opened,  and,  goaded  by  an  onslaught  of 
frantic  youngsters  in  the  rear,  out  rushed  a score  or  more  of  wild-eyed, 
long-horned,  sleek-hided  Texan  steers.  They  were  received  with  ex- 
cited yells  by  the  redskins  on  horseback,  and  each  group,  selecting  a 
steer,  at  once  improvised  a mimic  buffalo -hunt,  their  ponies  entering 
into  the  full  zest  of  the  chase. 

The  steers,  indeed,  were  wilder  than  buffaloes,  and  dashed  away  at 
high  speed,  surrounded  by  a little  crowd  of  shrieking  Indians,  whose 
fringes  and  bright  blankets  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  rapid 


PHOTOGRAPHY  A BAD  MEDICINE. 


95 


movements  of  the  horses,  made  a very  lively  picture.  It  lasted  only 
a few  moments,  however,  before  the  rifles  and  revolvers  began  to  be 
heard,  and  the  agonized  cattle  dropped  in  their  tracks,  yielding  up  their 
hides  almost  sooner  than  their  souls. 

This  over  (of  course  it  was  unphotographable),  we  attempted  to  take 
some  pictures  of  groups  of  redskins  at  the  Agency,  when  opposition  be- 
gan to  be  evident ; and  the  murmurs  grew  so  strong  that  when  Mr. 
Jackson  came  out  with  a second  plate  he  found  his  camera  surrounded 
by  a mounted  guard  of  Indians,  armed  with  lances,  who  not  only  kept 
everybody  away  but  threatened  the  destruction  of  the  instrument.  So 
no  more  negatives  were  made  that  morning.  They  had  a superstitious 
reason  for  this  behavior ; or  at  least  they  alleged  one,  though  I have 
always  thought  it  merely  a move  for  popularity  among  the  malcontents 
of  the  tribe  by  the  wily  Peeah.  They  said  that  to  photograph  a -single 
man  was  bad,  but  not  necessarily  fatal ; to  photograph  a squaw  was 
wrong  and  immodest ; but  to  take  a picture  of  a group  of  Indians  (un- 
less of  a whole  town,  for  e;cample,  at  long  range)  was  the  worst  kind  of 
bad  medicine.  ‘‘  Make  heap  Injun  heap  sick,”  they  asserted.  When 
asked  why,  it  was  gathered  that  they  believed  that  in  order  to  produce 
an  exact  likeness  on  the  photographic  plate  some  witchery  must  be 
exercised  by  the  sorcerer  who  hid  his  head  so  mysteriously  under  the 
black  cloth,  which  drew  out  of  the  ‘‘subject”  enough  of  his  actual  soul 
and  substance  to  construct  the  semblance  on  the  plate.  This  loss  of 
soul  a brave  warrior  might  not  miss;  but  certainly  a weak  squaw  had 
no  such  strength  to  spare  ; and  great  evils  had  been  known  to  follow 
the  photographing  of  a dozen  or  so  persons  at  once. 


96 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XIII. 

Undeterred  by  our  bad-luck  of  this  morning,  we  went  down  to 
the  camp  on  the  day  following,  determined  to  make  another  effort,  and 
by  flattery  succeeded  in  getting  several  good  general  views,  and  even 
pictures  of  Peeah  himself  and  some  of  the  other  head  men  in  their 
ceremonial  toggery  of  crown  and  long  train  of  the  feathers  of  the 
golden  eagle,  which  is  the  war-eagle  of  all  Indians. 

For  several  years  the  Utes  have  been  supposed  to  live  upon  the 
reservation,  which  embraces  some  14,000,000  acres,  in  south-western  Col- 
orado, and  is  the  largest  Indian  reservation  in  the  country.*  But  the 


FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  INDIAN  CAMP. 


fact  is  that  they  are  in  its  valleys  only  in  the  winter,  roaming  during 
the  summer  all  over  the  Territory,  particularly  in  the  park  country. 


* This  was  written  before  the  very  recent  sale  and  reduction  of  a large  part  of 
the  reservation  in  Colorado,  and  the  consequent  movement  of  the  whole  tribe 
north-westward  into  the  White  River  region. 


HOUSE-KEEPING  OF  THE  UTES. 


97 


From  about  the  ist  of  August  until  it  is  time  for  them  to  retire  to 
their  winter-quarters  in  the  Uncompahgre  valley  they  keep  near  their 
respective  Agencies,  and  live  on  the  rations  which  are  dealt  out  to  them 
by  the  government.  This  is  the  best  time  to  see  them  at  home,  for 
then  there  are  often  sixty  or  eighty  lodges  in  one  camp.  Their  lodges 
are  all  nowadays  made  of  cotton  cloth  furnished  by  the  government, 
are  conical  in  form,  and  supported  on  several  slender  poles  meeting  at 
the  top,  where  the  cloth  is  so  disposed  as  to  make  a sort  of  flue  or 
guard,  set  by  the  wind,  in  order  to  cause  a proper  draught.  A little, 
low  opening  on  one  side  makes  a door,  which  is  usually  closed  by  a 
flap  of  hide  or  an  old  blanket.  The  white  cloth  soon  becomes  be- 
grimed with  smoke  at  the  top,  which  in  time  extends  downward  and 
deepens,  until  you  have  a perfect  gradation  of  color,  from  the  white 
base  through  ever  deepening  smoke-browns  to  the  sooty  blackness  of 
the  apex,  adding  greatly  to  their  beauty.  Besides  this  discoloring,  for 
which  their  owners  are  not  directly  responsible,  the  lodges  are  often 
painted  in  bright  colors,  particularly  about  the  door-ways,  and  in  a band 
about  the  base ; and  usually  there  will  be  one  or  two  blue,  yellow,  or 
striped  lodges  in  a camp,  giving  a picturesque  variety  to  the  scene. 
About  each  teepee  (lodge)  or  group  of  teepees  — for  they  cluster  to- 
gether here  and  there  in  no  sort  of  order — you  will  ordinarily  find  sev- 
eral little  huts  of  evergreen  branches,  called  wicky-ups ; fires,  with  queer 
kettles  hanging  over  them  ; frames  hung  with  skins  in  process  of  tan- 
ning and  softening;  buffalo-robes  staked  on  the  ground  to  dry  or  to  be 
painted  by  the  squaws  at  leisure  times;  piles  of  all  sorts  of  truck — In- 
dian, .Mexican,  American,  and  nondescript — among  which  papooses  play, 
ponies  stroll  and  entangle  long  lariats  of  braided  raw-hide,  dogs  bark, 
and  indifferent  warriors  in  gay  suits  smoke  with  stoical  laziness. 

Their  utensils  consist  almost  entirely  of  what  they  have  bought 
from  the  whites,  iron  and  tin  ware;  but  some  peculiarly  Indian  manu- 
factures are  still  in  use,  as,  for  instance,  gourd-shaped  water-jars,  holding 
from  two  quarts  to  a gallon,  made  of  close  wicker-work,  well  pitched, 
one  of  which,  it  is  said,  it  takes  a squaw  four  days  to  make.  They  have 
little  paint-pots,  too,  of  black  pottery,  and  stone  pestles,  but  these  things 
are  almost  entirely  superseded  by  civilized  manufactures.  The  boys 
practise  with  bows  and  arrows,  and  use  them  largely  in  getting  small 
game ; but  the  older  ones  are  all  well-armed  with  Sharp’s  and  Ballard 
rifles  and  the  latest  improved  Winchester  carbines.  They  have  plenty 
of  cartridges,  too,  and  always  wear  revolvers,  so  that  a boyish  game, 
something  like  quoits,  is  about  the  only  use  they  find  for  their  arrows. 


98 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


The  noises  which  strike  your  ear  are  equally  varied,  running  all  the 
way  from  the  squealing  of  a poor  little  papoose  strapped  in  its  coffin- 
like cradle,  or  the  really  melodious  laughter  of  a squaw,  to  the  hoarse 
whinnies  of  a hundred  horses  and  the  ringing  report  of  a revolver.  The 
one  sound,  though,  which  will  attract  your  attention,  and  which  you 
never  fail  to  hear,  is  the  monotonous  droning  of  drums  in  the  medicine- 
man’s tent,  generally  accompanied  by  the  more  monotonous  chanting 
of  a series  of  notes  in  the  minor  key  which  is  neither  song  nor  howl  nor 
chant,  and  which  could  go  on  endlessly  if  it  wasn’t  occasionally  stop- 
ped by  a yelp  from  the  leader.  The  young  bucks  enjoy  this  singing, 
and  swing  their  bodies  in  time  with  a seriousness  of  countenance  that 
is  very  funny  to  a white  man.  I have  seen  two  different  drums  among 
them  ; one  nothing  more  than  buckskin  tied  tightly  over  the  mouth  of 
a jar,  and  the  other  made  of  raw-hide  stretched  very  tense  over  a broad 
hoop,  so  that  its  shape  was  that  of  a sieve. 

One  of  the  little  cradles  mentioned  seemed  a trifle  different  from 
the  ordinary  style,  and  I began  to  sketch  it,  as  it  stood  up  against  one 
of  the  lodge-poles,  while  the  mother  sat  on  the  ground  near  by  croon- 
ing a low  ditty,  and  sewing  on  a pair  of  moccasons.  But  the  instant 
she  saw  what  I was  about  she  snatched  her  infant  up  and  set  it  out  of 
sight.  I changed  my  position  and  tried  again,  and  soon  found  myself 
walking  round  and  round  the  lodge  after  a highly  alarmed  squaw.  It 
struck  me  just  then  that  I was  acting  an  impertinence,  but  I had  no 
time  to  desist  gracefully,  for  I found  my  arms  pinioned  to  my  side  by 
half  a dozen  sturdy  young  men,  who  crowded  me  so  closely  that  I could 
not  make  a stroke.  I laughed  and  shut  my  book,  but  would  not  let 
them  take  it ; and  when  one  essayed  to  draw  my  revolver  slyly  from 
its  case  I resented  it  most  emphatically. 

Just  then  it  began  to  rain,  and  I accepted  the  hospitality  of  Peeah’s 
teepee,  where  we  all  of  us  sat  around,  on  skins,  until  the  shower  was 
over.  The  shelter  was  miserable,  streams  trickling  down  everywhere. 
The  squaws  kept  pretty  quiet,  as  usual;  but  Peeah  talked  a good  deal, 
and  an  old  grandfather  was  very  voluble.  Peeah  occupied  the  time  in 
making  his  toilet.  From  the  depths  of  an  otter-skin  pouch,  which  was 
his  carry-all,  he  drew  forth  a small,  round  looking-glass  with  a tin  back 
and  cover,  and  a little  shallow  box,  hollowed  out  of  a single  piece  of 
wood,  which  contained  vermilion.  He  was  a short  man,  with  a very 
small  head  and  face ; and  as  he  squatted  upon  his  haunches  and  grinned 
facetiously  at  me  over  the  top  of  the  glass  with  his  little  piggish  eyes, 
he  seemed  more  like  a masquerading  boy  than  an  influential  man. 


INTERIOR  OF  A WICKY-UP  LODGE 


AN  INDIAN  HORSE-RACE. 


101 


Greasing  the  palms  of  his  hands  with  a little  tallow,  he  vigorously 
smoothed  down  his  jet-black  hair  until  it  was  pasted  to  his  diminutive 
skull  and  shone  as  though  varnished.  Behind,  his  hair  was  plaited  into 
two  braids,  into  which  were  entwined  strips  of  otter-skin,  thus  lengthen- 
ing the  plaits  until,  partly  hair  and  partly  fur,  they  hung  down  to  his 
hips.  These  braids  he  did  not  disturb,  but  contented  himself  with 
tinting  the  geometrically  straight  parting  in  the  middle  of  his  crown 
with  yellow-ochre.  This  done,  he  folded  a bit  of  buckskin  over  the  end 
of  his  finger,  dipped  it  in  a vermilion  paint,  and  began  rubbing  it  upon 
his  cheeks,  where  two  large  red  spots  .speedily  ornamented  his  extraor- 
dinarily dark  complexion.  To  these  he  added  some  flourishes  upon  the 
forehead,  and  two  or  three  vertical  dashes  upon  the  chin.  Then,  with 
a last  critical  smirk  in  the  glass  (the  shower  having  now  ceased),  he  re- 
placed his  toilet  articles,  gathered  his  Navajo  blanket  around  his  half- 
naked  shoulders,  and  stalked  out  of  the  lodge  with  the  gait  of  a tragedy- 
king.  I followed,  and  made  a bargain  with  him  for  his  blanket,  which 
I bought  for  twelve  dollars,  cash  down. 

The  tribe  possessed  (in  1874)  some  six  thousand  horses — and  about 
six  hundred  thousand  dogs  — fine  stock,  too,  which  they  had  largely 
captured  from  the  Cheyennes  and  Arapahoes,  who  in  turn  stole  them 
from  Texas  ranches  and  Mexican  herds.  They  take  immense  pride  in 
this  horse-wealth,  and  each  manages  to  have  a racer  in  his  stud,  on  the 
speed  of  which  he  will  bet,  not  only  his  “ bottom  dollar,”  but  his  bed 
and  board,  if  he  thinks  there  is  the  least  chance  of  winning.  I was 
present  at  one  of  their  races,  and  it  was  an  exciting  scene,  I assure  you. 
The  track  is  always  a straight  one,  and  the  distance  only  a few  hundred 
yards.  The  owners  bestride  their  own  nags,  and  at  a signal  all  start  to- 
gether and  come  flying  down  the  track,  arms  outstretched  or  frantically 
plying  the  three-lashed  quirt  of  leather,  heels  digging  every  pony’s  ribs, 
and  mouths  yelling  like  so  many  devils.  Sometimes  a horse  won’t  stop 
at  the  end,  tearing  over  the  prairie  a regular  runaway;  but  the  specta- 
tors only  laugh,  and  the  rider  doesn’t  seem  to  care. 

For  the  last  few  years  the  nation  has  been  decreased  in  numbers, 
probably,  especially  by  the  ravages  of  small-pox,  which  was  purposely 
communicated  to  them,  the  Indians  believe  (but  it  seems  hardly  cred- 
ible), by  some  traders  with  whom  the  Utes  were  unwilling  to  deal.  A 
few  Indians  having  taken  the  disease  from  the  infected  clothing  sold 
them,  others  were  advised  to  be  vaccinated,  but  were,  instead,  inoculated 
with  the  disease  with  malice  prepense — so  the  terrible  story  goes — by 
unprincipled  quacks  in  the  towns  south  of  them.  The  epidemic  raged 


102 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


with  fearful  power,  and  hundreds  of  families  were  exterminated.  It  is 
heart-rending  to  hear  the  account  of  it,  reminding  one  too  strongly  of 
the  Plague  of  Athens.  Their  method  of  treatment  was  that  panacea 
for  all  aboriginal  ills — the  sweat-house. 

The  sweat-houses  are  a common  object  in  all  villages,  and  usually 
are  built  close  to  the  stream  upon  which  the  encampment  is  placed. 
A shallow  pit  is  scooped,  a low  hut  of  willow-bushes  built  over  it,  a 
small  fire  kindled,  and  a number  of  stones  set  in  the  coals  to  heat. 
When  the  stones  are  red-hot  the  naked  man  or  woman  who  is  to  be 
treated  throws  a blanket  over  the  shoulders,  pours  water  upon  the  hiss- 
ing stones,  and  instantly  squats  over  the  steam.  Perspiration  follows 
as  a matter  of  course,  and  when  it  is  most  profuse  the  patient  bursts 
forth  from  the  sweat-house  and  plunges  into  the  cold  river.  This  is 
very  good  treatment,  perhaps,  for  light  fevers,  or  even  rheumatism  ; but 
the  result  in  small-pox  is  immediate  death.  Nevertheless,  the  prac- 
tice went  on  ; and  those  who  were  too  weak  to  try  it  were  tom-tomed 
to  death  by  the  insane  noise  and  conjurings  of  the  medicine-men.  The 
only  wonder  is  that  a redskin  of  them  all  survived  the  plague. 

The  southern  neighbors  of  the  Utes  are  the  Navajos,  a tribe  of  rest- 
less, spirited  people,  who,  though  constantly  wandering,  and  often  at 
war,  still  possess  large  herds  and  carry  on  certain  manufactures,  the 
most  noted  of  which  is  the  production  of  those  peculiarly  excellent 
blankets  known  as  the  “ Navajo,”  for  which  they  raise  wool,  dye,  spin, 
and  weave  it  on  looms  nowadays  furnished  by  the  government,  but  for- 
merly of  their  own  contrivance.  They  make  a good  deal  of  pottery, 
too,  and  seem  the  most  industrial  of  any  nomadic  Indians  of  which  I 
know.  The  Navajos  have  seen  much  of  the  Spaniards,  and  have  trans- 
mitted to  the  Utes  many  notions  thus  imbibed,  Navajo-Spanish  color- 
ing appearing  everywhere  in  the  language,  customs,  and  ideas  of  the 
latter.  This  tradition  of  the  Creation,  for  example,  seems  too  con- 
formable to  the  Old  Testament  account  to  be  received  as  altogether 
original  with  the  nation;  yet  the  old  men  aver  that  it  is  a Ute  tradi- 
tion— pure,  so  far  as  they  know  : 

The  world  was  created  by  one  Power,  they  tell  us,  and  existed  until 
it  became  too  densely  populated,  when  the  Creator  commanded’  one 
man  to  build  an  ark,  and  collect  in  it  a pair  of  every  species  of  animal 
from  all  parts  of  the  earth.  He  did  so,  and  remained  safe  through  the 
flood  which  speedily  followed  and  destroyed  all  other  life.  “Noah” — 
the  Indian  name  of  this  individual  I could  not  obtain — could  converse 
with  each  animal,  and  when  the  waters  began  to  subside  he  sent  out  a 


RELIGIOUS  IDEAS  OF  THE  UTES. 


103 


raven — at  that  time  a white  bird — strong  of  wing,  to  see  whether  the 
storm  was  fairly  over,  and  discover,  if  possible,  any  dry  land.  The 
raven  went,  but  delayed  his  anxiously-looked-for  return  so  long  that 
“Noah”  sent  out  after  him  a dove,  which,  quickly  returning,  brought 
news  that  the  raven,  true  to  his  nature,  had  forgotten  his  errand,  and 
was  all  this  time  gorging  l)imself  from  the  floating  carcasses.  Wroth 
at  this  neglect,  the  dove  was  sent  to  bring  the  culprit  back,  who,  for 
his  wickedness,  was  cursed,  and  changed  from  white  to  black.  Soon 
after  this  incident  the  ark  rested,  and  the  animals  were  sent  forth.  But 
at  this  time  the  earth  was  almost  entirely  covered  with  water,  and  was 
everywhere  level.  So,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  it,  the  Creator  commanded 
the  water  to  make  highways  for  itself  by  casting  up  mountain  chains 
and  digging  valleys  and  passes  through  which  to  run  into  the  general 
ocean  which  still  remained.  In  this  ocean,  which  tradition  described, 
Ouray  never  believed,  he  explained,  until,  on  his  first  visit  East,  he  saw 
the  Atlantic.  This  flood  they  consider  to  have  been  the  first  and  the 
last  which  came  upon  the  earth,  but  that  the  final  destruction  of  the 
world  will  be  by  fire,  after  which  it  will  be  peopled  by  the  spirits  of  the 
present  inhabitants.  So  much  exhibits  to  my  mind  the  result  of  Jesuit 
teaching;  but  as  I cannot  ascertain  that  any  of  these  missionaries  ever 
visited  the  Utes,  it  must  have  reached  them  (so  long  ago  that  they  have 
forgotten  it)  through  the  Southern  Indians,  who  had  frequent  communi- 
cation with  the  Spanish  priests. 

Aside  from  such  a tradition  as  this,  their  religious  belief  seems  pecul- 
iarly their  own.  They  believe  in  one  great  ruler  of  the  universe — om- 
nipotent, omniscient,  good — a personal  God.  This  spirit  is  nameless  to 
them.  They  do  not  try  to  represent  him  to  their  minds  by  any  con- 
crete form  or  in  any  stated  condition.  But  each  man  seeks  some  ob- 
ject in  nature  which  shall  typify  to  his  mind  all  that  is  pure  and  holy, 
and  exhibit  to  his  best  satisfaction  the  supremest  excellence  of  which 
he  is  able  to  conceive.  This  natural  object,  whatever  it  may  be,  he  does 
not  hold  sacred  or  to  be  worshipped  in  any  sense  as  an  idol,  but  only 
seeks  to  glorify  the  Almighty  and  Good  One  through  his  delight  in  it. 

Subordinate  to  the  Good  Spirit,  they  believe,  is  an  evil  spirit  — a 
spirit  of  malignant  mischief — Mephistopheles,  rather  than  Satan.  Any- 
thing human  or  animal  that  is  red — as  red  hair — is  supposed  to  belong 
to  him.  His  chief  exertion  seems  to  be  to  gain  possession  of  the  souls 
of  dying  ones  the  instant  they  escape  from  the  body.  His  foe  and 
watcher,  who  must  conduct  the  freed  soul  safely  to  heaven,  is  Sin-6-wap, 
the  good  angel,  who  is  supposed  to  attend  all  persons  when  they  die 


104 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


and  take  charge  of  their  souls.  All  this,  of  course,  implies  a hereafter 
of-rewards  for  good  and  evil,  and  that  every  one  is  responsible  for  his 
own  actions,  which  they  hold.  The  way  to  heaven  is  straight  and  ac- 
cessible to  all  good  men.  As  the  Good  Spirit  can  pardon  us  all  sins 
but  wilful  murder,  and  as  the  evil  spirit  is  never,  or  rarely,  supposed  to 
be  successful  in  his  effort  to  steal  souls  from  the  good  angel,  the  infer- 
ence is  that  nearly  everybody  gets  there. 

The  best  of  them  regard  the  human  race  as  of  but  one  blood,  and 
that  all  nations  will  reach  heaven  alike ; but  many  Indians  think  that 
most  other  races  are  simply  animals  of  a high  order,  and  not  men  as 
they  are. 

Such  is  their  religious  belief,  taught  them  about  the  lodge-fire,  by 
their  fathers  and  grandfathers,  as  soon  as  they  can  begin  to  understand, 
and  insisted  upon  by  the  medicine-men,  but  never  formulated  by  priests, 
for  there  are  none  such  whatever,  or  expressed  in  set  phrase  of  prayer 
or  adoration.  Their  minds  are  untrained,  unenlightened  by  any  ex- 
change of  ideas  with  better  intellects,  clouded  and  dimmed  by  mists 
of  superstition  which  it  is  impossible  to  clear  away  from  the  best  of 
them. 

Some  of  their  laws  and  customs  are  yet,  apparently,  untainted,  as, 
for  instance,  their  laws  of  inheritance.  During  a man’s  lifetime,  as  fast 
as  any  children  are  born  to  him  he  sets  apart  for  each  one  certain  prop- 
erty— principally,  of  course,  young  live-stock — which  grows  up  and  ac- 
cumulates with  his  increasing  years,  until  the  time  comes  for  him  to 
use  it,  when  it  is  ready  for  him.  But  the  father  retains  whatever  he 
wishes  for  himself,  to  wdiich  the  children  have  no  right  wdiatever.  When 
the  old  man  nears  death  he  can  give  away  such  of  this,  his  own  prop- 
erty, as  he  wishes,  but  all  that  he  does  not  give  away  is  buried  with  him, 
for  fear  that  he  may  need  it  in  the  other  world.  When  a man  is  dying 
a constant  noise  and  ceremony  is  kept  up,  to  frighten  away  the  evil 
spirit  and  secure  his  soul  to  the  good  angel’s  charge.  There  is  always 
some  man,  usually  the  physician,  to  attend  him,  who,  immediately  upon 
his  death,  designates  several  women  (never  men)  wdio  take  charge  of  the 
corpse,  and  in  the  night  take  it  away  and  bury  it  secretly  in  some  crev- 
ice of  rock  in  a lone  cliff,  or  sometimes  in  a grave,  taking  great  care 
that  the  sepulchre  is  not  accessible  to  wild  beasts,  and  that  no  one  else 
knows  where  the  body  is  buried.  His  arms,  implements,  and  clothing 
are  buried  with  him,  and  his  horses  and  dogs  killed  ; but  no  food  is  put 
in  the  grave,  and  no  human  sacrifice  is  ever  made  or  permitted.  The 
Indians  are  not  positive  that  there  will  be  any  use  for  these  w'orldly 


LOVE  AND  STARVATION. 


105 


things  beyond  the  grave,  but,  for  fear  there  may  be,  the  provision  seems 
never  to  be  neglected. 

If  a young  man  falls  in  love  with  a young  maiden  and  they  agree  to 
marry,  they  do  so  without  farther  ceremony,  and  go  to  house-keeping, 
with  or  without  the  assistance  of  their  parents,  as  happens.  This  is  the 
case  when  there  is  no  obstacle.  Should  the  young  man’s  father  object 
to  the  alliance,  the  girl’s  parents  consider  it  etiquette  to  object  also, 
and  matters  become  complicated.  If,  however,  the  young  fellow  can 
prevail  upon  his  sweetheart’s  papa  to  give  the  girl  up,  and  can  get  away 
with  her  in  spite  of  his  own  father,  the  old  gentleman  is  supposed  to 
give  in  gracefully  and  contribute  his  blessing.  Inasmuch  as  ample  provi- 
sion has  been  made  for  him  from  boyhood,  the  young  buck  rarely  finds 
himself  in  need  of  assistance  to  begin  his  married  life.  But  if  through 
misfortune  he  is  poor,  help  to  start  with  is  given  him  by  both  families, 
unless  he  has  behaved  disrespectfully  toward  them,  when  he  has  no  right 
to  expect  favors.  The  greatest  respect  is  exacted  from  one  and  all  to- 
ward those  older  or  greater  in  authority  than  they. 

The  Utes  are  hospitable  to  strangers.  If  a poor  man  comes  among 
them  and  by  his  behavior  gains  their  respect,  he  is  furnished  with  a 
horse  and  good  outfit,  which  he  is  at  liberty  to  use  as  he  pleases  so 
long  as  he  remains  with  them ; and  when  he  chooses  to  leave  he  is 
furnished  the  means  for  his  journey. 

The  Utes  in  1874  numbered  something  over  three  thousand  all 
told.  They  practise  no  industries,  but  are  rich  in  horses  and  arms. 
They  are  tall,  straight  men,  chaste  and  honest.  How  brave  they  are 
is  open  to  discussion,  but  we  know  that  they  are  pretty  well  scared 
at  the  Arapahoes  and  Cheyennes.  I was  in  their  camp  one  night  when 
an  attack  by  Comanches  was  apprehended.  Scouts  were  out  far  and 
wide,  the  warriors  had  their  horses  saddled,  and  the  whole  camp  was  up 
all  night,  beating  drums  to  keep  up  their  courage.  But  no  Comanches 
came,  for  which  I was  rather  sorry,  but  the  Utes  appeared  greatly  re- 
lieved. 

One  more  incident,  and  then  I leave  Los  Pinos.  One  morning,  just 
as  we  were  sitting  down  to  breakfast,  a gaunt,  white  mule  staggered 
into  our  camp,  bearing  a man  emaciated  almost  to  death,  and  scarcely 
able  to  sit  in  the  saddle.  An  Indian  trail  came  down  the  ravine,  which 
was  separated  from  us  by  a row  of  thick  bushes.  Coming  through  the 
bushes  the  man  burst  upon  our  camp  suddenly.  With  an  almost  fright- 
ened look  in  his  sunken  eyes,  the  poor  fellow  threw  up  his  hands  and 
ejaculated,  “ Thank  God!”  with  a heartfelt  fervor  rarely  accompanying 

8 


106 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


those  words.  We  helped  him  off  his  beast  and  offered  him  a seat  at 
our  table.  But,  as  though  after  all  he  was  not  safe,  he  muttered,  “ No 
— I’ll  chew  some  mushrooms,”  taking  one  from  his  pocket.  It  was  with 
difficulty  we  prevailed  upon  him  to  taste  better  food,  and  then  learned 
his  story.  He  lived  sixty  miles  or  so  west  of  there,  and  had  had  some 
horses  stolen  from  him.  He  knew  the  thieves,  and  started  in  pursuit, 
taking  only  a little  provision  and  no  matches.  Following  them,  he  for- 
got his  direction,  failed  to  overtake  them,  ate  up  his  food,  and  went 
wandering  about  a desolate  country,  living  wholly  on  mushrooms  (trust- 
ing to  luck  not  to  get  poisoned  ones)  and  a few  acorns.  He  said  the 
fungi  were  “good  raw,  but  he  wished  he’d  had  a fire  to  roast  ’em,  for 
then  they  was  bully.”  After  a few  days’  rest  at  the  Agency  he  went 
back  home,  but  whether  he  ever  got  his  horses  I don’t  know. 

To  lose  one’s  way  used  to  be  a common  occurrence  among  the 
early  wanderers  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  but  now  that  the  country  is 
better  known  the  danger  is  proportionately  decreased.  I shall  have  a 
little  story  of  the  sort  of  my  own  to  tell  presently. 


PROSPECTING  AN  “INDIGO  LODE.” 


107 


XIV. 

From  Los  Pinos  we  followed  a trail  over  the  mountains  into  the 
edge  of  Antelope  Park  — a magnificent  .valley,  watered  by  the  Rio 
Grande — then  cut  across  a high  spur  to  a point  above  Wagon  Wheel 
Gap,  and  followed  up  the  river  through  two  days’  journey,  past  splendid 
cliffs  of  soft,  volcanic  rocks,  tinted  white  and  black,  yellow,  buff,  deep 
blue,  light  blue,  and  red.  One  of  the  men  related  a funny  story  of  a 
tender-foot  who  passed  through  here,  with  some  miners,  tii  route  to  the 
San  Juan  silver  region,  where,  also,  we  were  then  bound.  When  these 
deep-blue  trachyte  walls  came  in  view  the  tender-foot  was  told  that 
there  was  an  extensive  indigo  lode,  which  capitalists  had  hitherto  neg- 
lected, because  crazy  after  the  silver  beyond.  He  was  so  impressed 
with  this  that  he  actually  made  a long  detonr  and  frightfully  difficult 
climb  to  examine  the  “indigo”  stratum.  He  was  a fair  example  of  a 
large  portion  of  the  drifting  population  of  the  new  West,  who,  when 
they  fail — as,  of  course,  they  do — go  back  home  and  curse  the  country, 
never  learning  their  own  ignorance  and  stupidity. 

This  trail  to  Baker’s  Park,  then  the  centre  of  the  San  Juan  moun- 
tains and  mining-district,  led  directly  up  the  Rio  Grande  to  its  very 
head -waters,  on  about  the  loftiest  ridge  of  the  Great  Divide  to  be 
found  anywhere,  and  called  for  feats  like  that  of  Blondin  ; while  the 
cold  was  intense,  and  deep  drifts  of  snow  impeded  our  progress.  For 
the  last  few  miles  the  river  itself  was  hidden  from  sight  deep  down  in 
a mighty  cleft  between  the  peaks,  where,  nevertheless,  we  could  fre- 
quently hear  its  rumbling 'as  it  rushed  down  the  precipitous  and  rocky 
defile.  This  was  far  above  timber-line,  and  not  even  a bit  of  soil  broke 
the  wide  waste  of  crumbling  trachyte  which  lay  in  vast  slopes  on  the 
sides  of  stupendous  summits,  or  relieved  the  sternness  of  the  black 
basaltic  cliffs  around  which  the  snow-storms  beat  and  the  drifts  curled 
in  ineffectual  rage.  There  is  no  possible  desolation  greater  than  these 
lofty  peaks  show — fastnesses  where  winter  is  supreme  and  chaos  retains 
a foothold  upon  the  earth — fragments  of  a primeval  and  Arctic  world 
dotting  the  fair  expanse  of  tempered  nature  below. 


108 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


The  Rio  Grande  del  Norte  rises  here,  in  a little  pocket  just  under 
the  very  apex  of  a peak  whose  name  I forget,  and  the  trail  passes 
around  the  springs  and  boggy  ground  whence  it  flows.  It  catches  the 
drainage  of  the  snow-banks  encircling  a wide  amphitheatre,  and  so  is 
well  dowered  at  the  start.  Then  a hundred  small  streams  hasten  to 
recruit  its  force  before  the  range — the  Sierra  Madre,  Mother  of  Moun- 
tains, of  the  old  geographies — is  left  behind,  and  so  it  is  a sturdy  stream 


TRAVELLING  ABOVE  THE  SNOW-LINE. 


that  tears  its  way  through  the  gates  of  columnar  basalt  at  Irene  canon, 
and  has  worn  down  the  noble  passage  through  Wagon-wheel  Gap.  Per- 
haps I weary  you  with  this  rhapsody  over  a river ; but  I have  a pecul- 
iar admiration  for  this  mighty  Rio  Grande,  whose  birth  I have  seen, 
whose  youth  I have  followed  step  by  step  even  down  to  Santa  Fe, 
and  whose  death  I have  witnessed,  in  the  dignity  and  solemnity  and 
slow  movement  of  old  age,  all  its  frolics  left  behind,  all  its  sparkle  lost 
in  the  hot  deserts,  only  its  depth  and  weight  and  solid  power  sent  to 
annihilation  in  the  greatness  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

On  this  same  high  ridge,  which  for  all  intents  and  purposes  of  cli- 


WATER-FALLS  OF  SPRAY. 


109 


mate  lies  within  the  Arctic  circle,  and  not  two  hundred  yards  distant, 
are  the  similar  sources  of  the  Las  Animas.  But  the  sharp  little  crest . 
which  lies  between — a favorite  play-ground  for  the  lightning — is  a part 
of  the  Continental  Divide,  and  separates  Atlantic  from  Pacific  drainage : 
for  the  Las  Animas  is  one  of  the  strongest  tributaries  of  the  Rio  San 
Juan,  and  that  of  the  Rio  Colorado,  which  forces  its  way  to  the  Gulf  of 
California  through  the  tremendous  canons  that  Major  John  W.  Powell 
has  made  us  all  familiar  with.  The  matter  of  a few  feet  one  side  or 
another  up  here,  therefore,  determines  whether  a snow-bank  shall  send 
its  liquid  aid  to  the  Gulf  Stream  or  melt  into  the  torrid  seas  of  the 
equatorial  Pacific. 

Down  the  trickling,  reckless  rill  which  later  broadens  and  deepens 
into  the  Rio  Las  Animas — River  of  Spirits — leads  a trail  almost  as  tum- 
bling and  impetuous  as  itself,  along  which  none  but  a trained  mountain 
mule  would  even  look ; and  we  dismount  from  our  animals,  letting  them 
go  on  alone,  and  pick  our  way  after  as  best  we  can.  It  is  worse  than 
Berthoud  Pass.  The  woods  are  dense  and  the  rocks  high,  so  that  we 
cannot  see  out ; but  when  at  last  some  sort  of  levelness  and  bottom 
appears  to  be  reached  we  find  ourselves  in  a vast  canon.  There  is 
another  way  in  here,  by  which  we  afterward  crawled  out.  It  was  called 
a wagon-road  ; but  the  only  means  of  using  it  is  to  take  your  wagon  to 
pieces  and  let  it  down  several  steep  places  by  ropes. 

The  canon  is  called  Cunningham’s  Gulch,  and  is  a vast  chasm  in 
the  mountains,  with  walls  in  many  places  absolutely  vertical  for  eight, 
twelve,  or  even  fifteen  hundred  feet  in  height,  on  top  of  which  rest 
peaks  that  pierce  the  clouds  and  gather  almost  ceaseless  snows.  From 
these  heights  in  melting  weather,  or  after  storms  on  the  summits,  come 
dozens  of  little  streams,  which  dash  down  to  the  brow  of  the  precipice 
and  then  leap  off  into  space.  Half  of  them  fly  to  pieces  and  are  lost 
in  spray  before  they  get  half-way  down.  Others  have  body  enough  to 
hold  their  shape  and  paint  a long,  flashing,  silver  stripe  upon  the  green- 
ish-gray face  of  the  crag.  Others  are  broken  by  projecting  points  and 
tumble  upon  shelves  and  ledges,  where  they  cling  ineffectually  an  in- 
stant and  then  pitch  off  again  with  noise  and  foam,  but  nourish  a few 
twigs  of  hardy  brush  and  tufts  of  herbs  by  their  continual  presence. 
On  a cold  morning  ice  enough  forms  overhead  to  make  little  pent- 
houses, from  under  which  they  spring  on  their  final  leap,  and  their 
edges  are  fringed  with  icicles.  Then,  when  the  wind  in  the  spruces 
is  still,  you  may  hear  their  sharp  and  sibilant  murmur  plainly,  and  see 
at  once  a dozen  swollen  water-falls,  any  one  of  which  in  height  would 


no 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


dwarf  Niagara  to  a mere  mill-dam.  The  most  beautiful  of  them  all 
could  be  seen  to  begin  far  back  from  the  edge  of  the  canon-wall,  seem- 
ingly on  the  very  apex  of  the  highest  peak  of  the  range,  which  had 
been  slightly  nicked  to  guide  its  current.  Of  course  there  were  greater 


LOOKING  FROM  A QUARTZITE  ROCK. 


altitudes  behind,  and  it  was  our  peculiar  point  of  view  that  gave  that 
strange  appearance ; but  we  never  could  see  it  otherwise. 

At  one  or  two  places  it  is  possible  to  climb  up,  and  there  prospect- 
ors went.  Was  ever  any  pinnacle  too  high,  any  hole  too  deep,  for  the 
silver-seeker  when  he  thought  he  saw  a ‘‘prospect”  there?  Here  their 
climbing  was  wise,  for  good  mines  were  found,  and  I had  curiosity 
enough  to  spend  half  a day  in  visiting  them.  The  trail  up  was  like  the 
stairway  in  Trinity  spire;  but  my  little  beast  climbed  it,  and  landed  me 
on  a plateau  at  last,  just  at  timber-line,  where  a family  of  miners  lodged, 
in  a sort  of  niche,  and  had  sunk  their  shafts  and  tunnels  into  the  verita- 
ble brow  of  the  hoary  old  mountain.  From  their  dooryard  you  had  an 
outlook  over  masses  of  chaotic  heights  which  defy  words  to  portray;  and 


TRAIL  TO  A HIGH  MINE  IN  THE  SIERRA  SAN  JUAN, 


PERILOUS  MINING-SITES. 


113 


if  you  fell  over  the  front  paling  your  useless  carcass  would  bump  and 
roll  and  take  flying  leaps  for  a quarter  of  a mile,  and  there  would  not  be 
enough  left  of  it  down  in  the  canon  to  afford  the  slimmest  pretext  for 
a funeral,  much  less  a eulogy.  It  makes  me  shudder  now  (though  not 
then)  when  I think  how  we  skipped  along  those  little  nicked-out  shelves 
of  foot-wide  and  slippery  trails  by  which  these  aeronautic  miners  of  the 
“Highland  Mary”  went  back  and  forth  from  their  cabin  to  their  tun- 
nel. Sometimes  the  path  would  lead  right  across  the  bed  of  one  of  the 
falling  streams  I have  spoken  of.  Down  below  it  had  appeared  only 
a tiny  gutter — a mere  thread  ; now  we  discovered  its  width  to  be  fifty 
feet,  and  its  polished  bed  inclined  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  or 
more.  The  water  slid  down  it  as  a thunder-bolt  slides  down  a steel  rod  ; 
and  if  you  lost  your  footing  and  started  there  would  be  no  stopping  for 
five  hundred  fathoms. 

Cunningham  Gulch — only  one  of  a great  many  wild  chasms  in  these 
great  San  Juan  mountains — leads  down  into  Baker’s  Park — a little  cir- 
cular valley  nestling  among  lofty  walls  of  trachyte.  Through  it  ran  the 
Las  Animas  and  two  creeks,  along  which  are  about  two  thousand  acres 
of  available  land.  The  park  was  named  after  Colonel  “Jim”  Baker, 
who  in  1862  brought  a large  party  of  gold-seekers  in  here,  expecting  to 
find  profitable  gulch  mining.  But,  disappointed,  they  were  caught  here 
by  winter,  half  froze  to  death,  and  the  other  half  came  within  an  ace 
of  hanging  Baker  for  his  pains.  After  that  an  occasional  camper’s  fire 
was  the  only  indication  of  civilization  until  1872,  when  silver  was  discov- 
ered and  a stampede  hither  occurred. 

We  did  not  camp  directly  down  in  the  park,  where  the  now  flourish- 
ing town  and  county  seat  of  Silverton  was  then  a map  of  squarely-laid- 
out  streets  and  a few  half-built  log-cabins,  but  chose  a ledge  five  miles 
above,  opposite  the  older  mining  camp  of  Howardville.  We  had,  and 
witnessed,  some  stirring  incidents  in  life  here ; for  the  locality  was  a 
good  old-fashioned  “h — 11  of  a place,”  as  “the  boys”  fondly  spoke  of  it. 
It  is  too  late,  and  not  within  my  purpose,  to  discuss  the  mineral  charac- 
teristics of  the  district,  and  a word  or  two  only  must  content  you  in  re- 
gard to  scenery. 

The  tops  of  all  the  mountains  in  this  portion  of  the  Territory  are 
trachytic  in  their  character,  and  there  are  five  thousand  square  miles  of 
this  rock  hereabouts,  overlying  gneisses  and  schists,  with  many  intruded 
quartzite  peaks.  In  this  group  is  included  the  highest  land  in  the  Ter- 
ritory, as  a whole,  and  one  can  see  from  almost  any  of  the  hoary  sum- 
mits within  view  a round  dozen  more — east,  west,  north,  and  south — 


Ill  KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 

reaching  up  to  and  beyond  14,000  feet.  It  is  the  roughest  country  I 
ever  saw,  and  I could  go  on, endlessly  with  descriptions  of  scenery,  any 
single  detail  of  which  would  be  sufficiently  astonishing.  But  the  chief 
interest  to  the  world  of  all  this  is  not  the  unspeakable  grandeur  which 


baker’s  park  and  sultan  mountain. 


oppresses  you  by  its  vastness,  nor  yet  the  fact  that  here  is  a geological 
problem  to  solve  which  the  student  must  discard  many  a cherished 
precedent,  and  anticipate  nothing ; but  rather  that  here  are  veins  of 
crystalline  rock,  each  one  full  of  wealth. 

With  respect  to  the  ore  itself,  it  is  found  accompanying  lead,  zinc, 
iron,  copper,  antimony,  etc.,  and  in  iron  and  copper  pyrites,  and  is  en- 
riched by  gray  copper  and  brittle  silver.  Different  mines  vary  in  char- 
acter and  adaptability.  Those  around  Howardville,  which  is  about  the 
centre  of  the  district,  are  smelting  ores;  those  in  the  Uncompahgre 
region  are  fit  for  chlorodizing,  and  so  on.  Nevertheless,  little  can  be 
said  with  confidence  beyond  the  developments  already  made ; but,  so 
far,  there  is  promise  of  an  almost  boundless  source  of  wealth  to  the 
nation  for  years  to  come. 


DETECTING 'PRECIOUS  ORES. 


115 


XV. 

It  used  to  puzzle  me  as  a boy,  when  I heard  of  the  marvellous 
mines  of  gold  and  silver  found  in  Australia,  Africa,  and  the  western 
part  of  our  own  country,  to  understand  how  the  discoverers  knew  when 
they  really  had  the  precious  metals.  I had  seen  quartz  with  flakes 
and  nodules  of  yellow  gold  in  it,  which  could  not  be  mistaken  ; and  I 
knew  that  on  Silver  Islet,  in  Lake  Superior,  and  at  a few  other  places, 
silver  appears  in  a white  metallic  shape  equally  unmistakable.  But  I 
was  told  that  “ native  ” gold  or  silver,  as  this  unmixed  metal,  recog- 
nizable at  a glance,  is  called,  was  rare ; that  the  usual  form  in  which 
it  occurred  was  mixed  with  other  metals  and  earths  in  a compound 
called  an  “ ore and  that  this  ore  often  looked  as  common  and  worth- 
less to  an  inexperienced  eye  as  any  other  rock.  How,  then,  I used  to 
ask  myself,  do  the  miners  know  the  rich  earth  from  the  poor,  the  “ pay- 
streak  ” from  the  “ wall-rock,”  and  how  are  they  able  to  say  exactly  how 
valuable  this  or  that  ore  is  ? 

Since  then  I have  learned  enough  to  answer  my  own  questions. 

The  man  who  digs  the  gold  and  silver,  as  a rule,  does  not  know  the 
value  of  what  he  finds,  but  his  experience  teaches  him  that  rocks  of  a 
certain  appearance,  found  in  certain  situations,  are  likely  to  be  valuable. 
Some  gold  can  be  seen  in  quartz  and  picked  out  with  a penknife. 
There  is  a small  class  of  lazy  men  in  the  West  who  are  content  to  do 
no  better  than  hunt  about  the  ledges  and  “ coyote  ” out  the  yellow 
specks  in  this  way,  and  now  and  then  they  strike  a large  nugget  em- 
bedded in  the  glistening  quartz.  But  this  is  not  the  scientific  and  prof- 
itable way  of  mining. 

Quartz  is  a white,  transparent  or  translucent  rock,  made  up  of  crys- 
tals. It  occupies  cracks  that  have  been  made  in  the  earth’s  crust  by 
some  of  the  forces  which  have  acted  upon  the  rocks  in  their  cooling 
from  the  state  of  heat  in  which  all  the  foundation  rocks  of  the  world, 
such  as  granite,  gneiss,  and  the  like,  began  their  existence.  The  suppo- 
sition is  that  the  quartz  has  gradually  been  deposited  in  the  cracks  by 


116 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


water  saturated  with  silica,  of  which  quartz  is  composed  ; and  a crack 
thus  filled  up  is  called  a quartz  “vein.”  From  where  I sat  writing  in 
my  camp,  in  Baker’s  Park,  I could  count  perhaps  fifty  of  these  whitish 
veins  or  “lodes”  running  up  and  down  the  facade  of  the  opposite  cliff, 
and  a mile  away  in  any  direction  I could  have  counted  fifty  more,  all 
of  them  competent  to  carry  gold  or  silver,  or  both,  which  was  borne  in 
with  the  waters  that  deposited  the  silica. 

When,  in  the  course  of  the  crumbling  of  a mountain  by  glaciers  or 
lightning,  or  the  ordinary  wear  and  tear  of  frost,  sunlight,  rains,  and 
the  rest  of  the  destructive  agencies,  quartz -veins  carrying  gold  are 
ground  to  pieces,  the  grains  of  gold  are  swept  down  in  the  beds  of  the 
streams  along  the  gulches,  and  mingle  with  the  drifted  pebbles.  This 
golden  gravel  forms  what  is  known  as  a “bar,”  and  the  operation  of 
washing  the  gold  out  of  the  gravel  is  “placer-mining.”  Where  a vein 
appears  upon  the  surface  it  is  said  to  “outcrop,”  and  it  is  the  outcrop 
that  the  prospector  first  hits  upon.  To  an  untrained  eye  this  outcrop- 
ping rock  hardly  looks  like  quartz  in  many  cases ; perhaps  it  was  im- 
pure to  begin  with — impregnated  with  iron  or  some  other  foreign  ma- 
terial. The  once  white  rock  is  yellow  and  rust-colored,  and  has  be- 
come honey-combed  under  the  action  of  the  weather,  until  it  is  alto- 
gether changed  in  aspect.  In  such  a decomposed  quartz  gold  cannot 
be  seen  with  the  eye,  but  must  be  detected  by  tests  which  shall  cause 
the  gold,  if  any  is  there,  to  separate  from  the  quartz  and  make  an  ex- 
hibition of  itself. 

As  for  silver,  it  occurs  in  various  different  ores.  Sometimes  it  is 
found,  like  gold,  in  veins  of  quartz  and  other  crystalline  rocks ; some- 
times saturating  rocks  lying  in  strata;  sometimes,  as  at  Leadville,  Colo- 
rado, mingled  with  other  minerals  in  beds  which  usually  occur  between 
stratified  rocks  underneath  and  volcanic  overflows  above,  being  derived 
from  the  latter.  Usually  the  silver  is  found  closely  associated  with 
copper  or  lead,  and  generally  great  quantities  of  iron  are  also  present. 
These  minerals  join  to  make  silver  ore  in  some  shape  or  other,  and  form 
a rock  or  earth  having  the  peculiar  appearance  that  attracts  the  atten- 
tion of  the  prospector,  who  has  seen  such  ores  elsewhere,  and  notes  the 
resemblance. 

Judging,  therefore,  that  he  has  hit  upon  a deposit  of  rock  contain- 
ing  gold  or  silver,  the  miner  takes  specimens  to  the  one  man  who  can 
tell  him  whether  he  is  right  in  his  judgment,  and  how  valuable  his 
specimens  are.  This  man  is  the  assayer. 

The  assayer,  then,  is  an  important  man,  and  among  the  first  to 


A MOUNTAIN  ASSAYER  AND  HIS  OUTFIT. 


117 


hasten  to  every  new  camp  is  an  enterprising  graduate  from  Freiburg 
or  some  American  school  of  mines,  eager  to  put  his  newly  acquired 
learning  to  practical  use.  He  is  a mere  boy,  perhaps.  His  hands  are 
soft,  his  tongue  unused  to  all  the  rough  phrases  and  quaint  slang  of  the 
diggings,  his  frame  so  slight  that  one  of  those  brawny  pick-swingers 
could  hurl  him  over  a cliff  with  a single  hand  ; but  they  are  glad  to  see 
him,  and,  however  much  they  may  laugh  at  his  greenness  in  mountain 
manners,  hold  in  high  respect  his  scientific  ability,  and  wait  with  ill- 
suppressed  eagerness  for  his  report  upon  the  samples  they  have  brought 
to  him  for  analysis,  impatient  to  hear  the  word  that  shall  pronounce 
them  rich  men  or  send  them  out  again,  disappointed,  to  search  still 
longer  for  the  glittering  prize  the  rocks  so  effectually  hide. 

Our  young  assayer  builds  a rough  cabin  like  the  rest,  and  proceeds 
at  once  to  make  himself  a furnace.  If  he  can  get  bricks,  so  much  the 
better;  but  I have  seen  assayers  two  hundred  miles  from  a brick,  and 
resorting  to  stone  and  mud.  His  furnace  is  provided  with  a good 
draught,  and  contains  as  its  central  feature  an  oven  (called  a “muffle”), 
where  the  cupelling  and  scorifying  is  done,  as  I shall  explain  presently. 
The  muffle  is  a chamber  of  fire-clay,  about  eight  inches  wide  and  twenty 
inches  long, much  like  a section  of  flat-bottomed  drain-pipe.  Meanwhile 
the  young  man  has  set  some  one  at  making  charcoal  out  of  poplar,  for 
his  fuel,  and  by  the  time  he  is  prepared  to  go  to  work  this  is  ready  for 
him. 

He  has  also  brought  with  him  a bucking-board  or  a mortar,  upon 
which  to  crush  his  ores ; an  anvil,  several  dozens  of  scorifiers,  a mould 
and  die  for  making  cupels;  tongs;  bottles  of  acid;  several  scales  of  great 
delicacy,  kept  under  glass  cases  ; and  some  lesser  tools.  This  is  his  out- 
fit, and  it  makes  a very  small  and  cheap  appearance  in  its  rude  quarters. 
Many  assayers  in  the  towns,  of  course,  have  very  elegant  offices  and 
elaborate  arrangements ; but  these  nabobs  do  not  come  into  my  story. 

Now  he  is  prepared  to  begin  work,  and  hangs  out  a shingle.  Before 
long  a miner  comes  in,  bringing  a salt-bag  full  of  fragments  of  stone 
and  earth,  and  asks  that  its  value  be  tested  according  to  those  scientific 
methods  which,  when  properly  managed,  admit  of  no  mistake  in  what 
they  disclose. 

The  assayer  first  makes  a careful  record  of  the  specimen  and  assures 
himself  that  it  is  perfectly  dried.  If  there  is  more  ore  than  can  well  be 
handled,  it  is  then  “ sampled  ” by  being  sprinkled  upon  a sort  of  wide- 
grooved  gridiron,  where  a portion  falls  through  and  part  remains.  The 
part  remaining  is  then  sprinkled  over  a smaller  gridiron,. and  so  on  until 


118 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


a sufficiently  small  sample  is  left.  This  is  to  make  sure  that  the  por- 
tion tested  is  a fair,  average  sample  of  the  whole  lot. 

The  next  step  is  to  reduce  the  sample  to  powder.  This  is  done 
either  by  pounding  it  with  an  iron  pestle  in  an  iron  bowl  or  “ mortar,” 
or  by  crushing  it  under  the  sliding,  back -and -forth  movement  of  a 
heavy,  round-faced  “ muller  ” of  iron  on  an  iron  plate,  the  surface  of 
which  is  slightly  roughened.  The  latter  process  is  the  favorite  one, 
and  is  termed  “bucking  the  ore.”  The  verb  “to  buck,”  whether  of 
Western  origin  or  not,  certainly  has  a comprehensive  and  what  might 
be  termed  a striking  meaning.  It  signifies  to  resist  determined  oppo- 
sition, and  to  resist  it  with  pertinacity.  A man  bucks  against  the  law 
when  he  appeals  his  case  to  higher  and  higher  courts ; bucks  against 
piety  when  he  is  unmoved  by  a sturdy  “revival;”  bucks  at  faro  when 
he  sits  down  and  gambles  all  night ; bucks  ores  when  he  crushes  their 
tough  lumps  and  hard  grains  until  they  slide  between  his  thumb  and 
finger  like  flour. 

Fifteen  to  twenty  minutes  will  usually  suffice  to  produce  a teacup- 
ful of  dust  out  of  the  hardest  stones ; but  not  until  this  dust  will  pass 
through  an  eighty-mesh  sieve,  which  is  one  almost  as  finely  woven  as  a 
lady’s  handkerchief,  is  the  assayer  satisfied  to  cease  his  hard  labor.  The 
finer  the  dust,  the  more  fusible  or  capable  of  wholly  melting  it  is,  and 
upon  its  complete  fusion  depends  the  success  of  the  assay  as  an  accu- 
rate test. 

But  the  amount  of  ore  which  has  been  powdered  is  far  too  large  to 
be  carried  through  the  furnace,  for  that  is  its  destination.  The  sheet  of 
paper  that  holds  it,  therefore,  is  taken  to  the  balance-room,  and  perhaps 
a twentieth  of  the  whole,  a thimbleful  or  so,  is  put  into  the  ore-balance 
against  one-tenth  of  an  assay  ton,  or  two  and  nine-tenths  grammes,  the 
precise  weight  being  ascertained  with  the  greatest  care.  This  final 
“ sample  ” is  now  placed  in  a “ scorifier  ” (a  small  shallow  cup  of  fire- 
clay or  some  other  refractory  material)  and  mixed  with  twenty  to  thirty 
grammes,  according  to  the  quality  of  the  ore,  of  chemically  pure  lead, 
a portion  of  this  test-lead  being  saved  to  be  placed  as  a layer  over  the 
surface  of  the  rest,  together  with  a few  pieces  of  borax-glass,  useful  as 
a flux.  The  scorifier  is  then  placed  in  the  arched  muffle  of  his  furnace, 
where  it  is  subjected  to  red  heat,  carefully  though  roughly  regulated, 
and  is  allowed  to  remain  until  a thorough  fusion  has  taken  place,  part 
of  the  test-lead  having  then  become  rusted  or  oxidized,  forming  of  the 
impurities  a slag  which  covers  the  whole  surface  like  a cake.  In  the 
process  which  has  brought  this  result  about,  the  test-lead  in  melting  has 


FUSING  AND  CUPELLATION. 


119 


sunk  by  its  greater  weight  through  the  mineral  contents  of  the  cup,  and 
has  collected  all  the  gold  and  silver  on  its  way,  forming  at  the  bottom 
a globule  or  “ button  ” composed  of  an  alloy,  or  chemical  mixture,  of 
lead  and  precious  metals. 

Usually  the  assayer  has  some  idea  of  the  character  of  the  ore  he  is 
at  work  upon,  and  knows  pretty  well  whether  there  are  both  silver  and 
gold  or  only  one  in  it.  As  a rule,  also,  the  ores  of  silver  are  pretty  free 
from  gold ; and  if  he  is  searching  for  silver,  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  sepa- 
rate the  lead  and  silver  in  the  button  to  know  what  proportion  of  the 
latter  it  contains. 

The  fusing  operation  just  described  having  been  completed,  the  sco- 
rifier  is  taken  out  of  the  muffle  and  its  molten  contents  poured  into  a 
little  deep  mould.  Several  of  these  moulds  are  cast  together  into  an 
iron  frame,  and  resemble  very  closely  the  house-keeper’s  “gem”  mould, 
whence  issue  the  russet  delights  of  our  breakfast -tables.  When  the 
molten  material  is  poured  into  this  mould  the  button  falls  to  the  bot- 
tom, and  is  covered  by  the  glassy  slag,  which  when  cool  is  easily  de- 
tached from  it  by  a blow  of  the  hammer  on  the  anvil. 

This  done  the  button  is  ready  for  “ cupellation,”  and  is  placed  in  a 
cupel,  which  has  previously  been  heated  to  redness  in  the  muffle.  The 
“cupels”  are  flat  cups  of  about  an  inch  diameter  and  a third  of  an  inch 
in  height,  which  are  pressed  out  of  white  bone-ash  by  means  of  a brass 
mould  and  hand-die,  and  may  thus  be  made  by  the  assayer  himself  as 
fast  as  required.  This  cupel  and  the  button  having  been  deposited  in 
the  muffle,  the  action  of  the  heat  upon  the  button  causes  a rapid  change 
in  the  character  of  the  lead  contained  in  it,  a portion  of  which  passes  up 
the  flue  in  fumes  of  the  most  noxious  properties ; but  the  greater  part 
is  absorbed  by  the  bone-ash  of  the  cupel,  leaving  the  gold  and  silver  free 
in  the  shape  of  a more  or  less  minute  shining  globule  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cup.  A quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  is  occupied  by  this  operation,  and 
the  instant  the  last  trace  of  lead  is  gone  (and  the  assayer  knows  it  by 
the  “ blick,”  or  appearance  of  rainbow  colors,  over  the  surface,  caused  by 
the  rapid  alternation  of  the  red  and  yellow  oxides  of  lead)  the  cupel  is 
taken  from  the  furnace  and  is  allowed  to  cool  gradually.  After  this  the 
globule  is  weighed  upon  balances  of  such  precision  that  they  will  accu- 
rately determine  the  tenth  of  a milligramme,  which,  in  round  figures,  is 
about  one  three-hundred-thousandth  of  an  ounce.  Pluck  an  eye-winker, 
lay  it  in  one  of  these  pans,  and  the  beam  of  the  scale  will  sink  under  its 
weight ! 

It  remains  now  to  calculate,  from  the  weight  of  the  silver  pin-head 


120 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


remaining  as  the  last  memento  of  the  ore-sample  which  had  been  so 
thoroughly  subdivided,  the  number  of  ounces  of  precious  metal  to  the 
ton  of  crude  ore  represented.  This  involves  a pretty  bit  of  mathemat- 
ics, which,  though  intricate,  I hope  to  make  plainly  understood. 

The  “ assay  ton  ” is  the  unit  of  the  system  of  weight  in  testing  for 
silver  and  gold.  An  assay  ton  is  arbitrarily  assumed  to  be  29,166 
grammes,  which  is  the  number  of  troy  ounces  in  a ton  of  2000  pounds 
avoirdupois.  Therefore  one  milligramme  has  the  same  relation  to  an 
assay  ton  as  one  troy  ounce  has  to  the  avoirdupois  ton.  Consequently, 
having  found  by  weight  how  many  milligrammes  of  silver  remain  from 
the  assay  (the  sample  having  been  determined  before  the  test,  you  re- 
member, to  be  exactly  one-tenth  of  an  assay  ton),  you  know  just  how 
many  ounces  of  silver  there  are  to  the  ton  of  ore,  since  the  two  ex- 
actly correspond.  The  tenth  of  an  assay  ton  of  a certain  ore,  for  in- 
stance, is  put  through  the  furnace,  and  yields  six  milligrammes,  which  is 
sixty  milligrammes  to  the  assay  ton.  As  the  relation  of  the  milligramme 
to  the  assay  ton  is  precisely  that  of  the  relation  of  the  troy  ounce  to  the 
avoirdupois  ton,  a simple  proportion  shows  that  the  ore  carries  an  aver- 
age of  sixty  ounces  of  precious  metal  in  every  ton  mined. 

Should  any  gold  be  suspected  to  exist  in  the  button,  the  “parting” 
of  it  from  the  silver  is  accomplished  by  the  process  of  “ inquartation.” 
This  consists  in  adding  a considerable  quantity  of  silver  and  re-fusing 
in  a cupel,  in  order  to  separate  the  particles  of  gold,  so  that  the  silver 
can  be  acted  upon  by  nitric  acid,  which  is  used  because  it  is  powerful 
enough  to  dissolve  all  the  silver  away.  The  fusing  having  been  fin- 
ished, the  metal  is  placed  in  a little  porcelain  pan  filled  with  nitric 
acid,  and  cautiously  heated  over  a spirit-lamp  until  all  the  silver  has 
disappeared.  Then  the  acid  is  thrown  away,  and  the  gold  is  saved  by 
decantation,  as  the  chemists  say,  which  amounts  to  a miniature  “ pan- 
ning out.”  The  gold  remaining  in  the  little  pan  seems  like  a black 
dust — black  because  the  grains  are  so  minute  that  the  eye  is  unable  to 
perceive  that  any  light  is  reflected  from  them,  for  it  is  the  reflection 
of  the  light  that  causes  gold  in  larger  quantities  to  gleam  yellow.  If 
you  put  it  under  the  microscope  you  will  find  that  this  dust  of  gold  is 
not  really  dust  in  separate  grains,  but  a connected,  lace-like  net-work  of 
gold  wires,  finer  than  any  gossamer,  and  exceedingly  beautiful.  It  is 
the  golden  skeleton  of  the  button  left  behind  by  the  acid,  which  has 
dissolved  all  the  silver  away  from  it.  The  last  step  of  the  work  is  to 
anneal  this  gold -lace  into  a little  lump,  when  it  is  weighed,  and  its 
amount,  and  the  value  of  the  ore  it  represents,  is  announced. 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  SMELTING. 


121 


Most  of  the  tests,  however,  are  of  ores  known  to  be  valuable,  but 
the  exact  worth  of  which  it  is  desired  to  ascertain.  When  ore  is  to  be 
smelted,  also,  in  order  to  be  cast  into  bullion,  the  assayer  must  first  de- 
termine the  proportions  of  the  different  minerals  it  contains  in  order  to 
know  how  much  lime  and  iron  and  coke  to  mix  with  it,  that  the  opera- 
tion may  succeed. 

There  is  plenty  of  use  for  the  scientific  man  and  his  furnace  in  a 
prosperous  mining  camp,  therefore,  and  his  business  is  a profitable, 
pleasant,  and  healthy  one,  so  long  as  he  preserves  himself  against  in- 
haling the  lead  fumes  that  his  fire-tests  set  free  from  the  metals. 


SEEN  FROM  AN  ASSAYER’S  WINDOW, 


122 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XVI. 

It  happened  that  everybody  went  off  on  a side-trip  the  next  morn- 
ing after  our  arrival,  except  Dr.  F.  M.  Endlich  and  myself.  With  us 
remained  a young  Cheyenne  packer,  as  general  servant,  and  our  little 
French  cook.  Ugly  rumors  were  abroad,  and  daily  growing  thicker, 
that  the  Indians  south  of  us  were  on  the  war-path — had  burnt  ranches, 
driven  in  herdsmen,  hunters,  and  prospectors,  and  were  intending  to 
raid  this  very  valley  and  camp.  Each  report  confirmed  these  sangui- 
nary rumors,  and  everybody  began  to  believe  that  they  must  at  least 
be  partly  true.  Discussing  the  matter  about  our  camp-fire,  it  appeared 
that  Bob,  the  packer,  was  extremely  anxious  that  the  redskins  should 
appear,  and  that  he  had  vowed  to  perform  miracles  of  valor  in  resist- 
ance and  vengeance.  His  courage  and  cunning  in  Indian  warfare,  he 
assured  us,  were  boundless.  The  cook,  on  the  other  hand,  frankly  said 
he  was  afraid  ; and  though  he  thought  he  should  feel  obliged  to  defend 
his  pots  and  pans,  if  it  came  to  “the  scratch,”  yet  he  hadn’t  lost  any 
Indians,  consequently  searching  for  none,  and  would  rather  they  stayed 
on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains. 

Well,  that  night,  as  usual,  we  went  to  bed  at  nine  o’clock  or  so. 
The  camp,  as  I have  mentioned,  was  fixed  on  a wooded  bluff  or  terrace 
about  a hundred  feet  higher  than  the  level  of  the  narrow  valley,  where 
stood  the  miscellaneous  assemblage  of  houses,  huts,  tents,  and  half- 
buried  kennels  called  Howardville.  To  get  up  and  down  from  the 
village  to  our  camp  was  only  practicable  by  a winding  sort  of  road, 
narrow  and  steep.  Almost  on  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  near  the  top  of 
this  roadway,  Endlich  and  I made  down  our  beds,  while  Bob  and 
Charley  slept  soiYie  distance  away  at  the  cargo. 

I suppose  I had  been  soundly  asleep  for  two  hours,  when  I heard 
the  most  diabolical  shrieking  and  yelling,  with  a rattling  and  popping 
of  rifles  and  revolvers,  as  though  I had  suddenly  been  dropped  into  the 
heart  of  the  battle  of  Gettysburg  or  Chancellorsville,  niimis  the  artillery. 
At  the  same  instant  I opened  my  eyes,  and  there  stood  Bob,  half-dressed, 


A MIDNIGHT  RAID. 


123 


his  face  so  blanched  with  fear  that  I could  detect  its  paleness  in  the  wan 
starlight.  Trembling  so  that  he  could  scarcely  articulate,  he  stammered 
out,  “ They’ve  come  ! They’re  killing  ’em  all  down  there  ! Oh-h-h  !” 
and  with  that  he  disappeared  into  the  bushes. 

Well,  it  did  look  that  way.  A most  infernal  racket  came  up  out  of 
that  gulch,  which  was  hidden  from  our  sight,  and  volley  after  volley 
assailed  our  ears.  Endlich  and  I got  our  arms,  and  hastened  to  the 
brow  of  the  bluff,  where  we  could  command  the  approach  ; but  there 
before  us  was  the  little  Frenchman,  with  his  old  carbine,  as  polite  and 
unobtrusive  as  ever,  about  as  much  disturbed  as  he  would  have  been 
to  find  a chipmunk  in  his  bag  of  hominy.  Then,  all  at  once,  the  noise 
ceased — not  a yell  nor  a pistol-shot  reached  our  ears.  It  was  remark- 
able how  suddenly  the  whole  massacre,  or  whatever  the  thing  was,  had 
been  put  a stop  to ; and  we  really  felt  the  dead  silence  to  be  more  omi- 
nous than  the  noise  had  been,  for  we  could  form  no  idea  of  its  import. 
Was  everybody  stone-dead?  After  an  hour  or  so  of  perfectly  quiet 
vigil,  however,  we  became  tired  of  this  midnight  masquerading  as  war- 
riors, went  back  to  our  blankets,  and  compared  notes.  He  had  stopped 
in  dressing  to  lace  and  tie  completely  a pair  of  high-ankled  shoes  (over 
the  nuisance  of  which  he  had  wasted  expletives  every  morning),  but 
was  quite  unconscious  that  he  had  done  so  till  he  proceeded  to  take 
them  off.  As  for  myself,  I had  carefully  spread  out  my  blankets  be- 
fore going  away,  for  I had  said  to  myself,  “ After  this  scrimmage  is 
over  I shall  want  a warm  nest  to  come  back  to  for  my  morning’s  nap.” 
But  poor  Bob  — the  valiant,  the  boastful,  the  Falstaff  of  the  party — 
shivered  the  night  away  in  the  bushes,  far  up  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
and  didn’t  sleep  at  all. 

Next  day  came  the  explanation,  disclosing  a typical  phase  of  Rocky 
Mountain  life.  It  appeared  that,  a fortnight  before,  a gentleman  had 
brought  to  the  camp  several  thousands  of  dollars  in  cash,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  buying  interests  in  the  mines.  Ready  money  was  very  scarce 
in  this  district  at  that  time,  and  greatly  needed  to  develop  valuable 
property.  The  coming  of  this  capitalist  was,  therefore,  hailed  with  joy, 
and  undoubtedly  good  bargains  were  at  once  offered.  But  day  after 
day  he  held  off  and  would  not  buy.  This  over- cautious  course  dis- 
gusted the  miners,  and  they  made  up  their  mind  to  free  the  community 
of  so  objectionable  a person.  He  and  his  money  (which  they  might 
easily  have  stolen)  were  safe  enough  from  harm,  only  he  must  ‘‘go.” 
Hints  failing,  they  sent  some  good  talkers  to  fill  the  old  man’s  ears  full 
of  Indian  rumors,  and  then  a lot  of  them  disguised  themselves  as  In- 


12i 


KNOCKING  'ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


dians,  and  made  a sham  attack  upon  his  half-tent,  half-hut  of  a house, 
with  all  the  yelling  and  firing  that  we  had  heard.  The  scare  was  effect- 
ual.  The  old  man  was  frightened  nearly  out  of  his  wits,  and  fled  to  the 
woods.  Then,  having  got  their  hand  in,  the  boys  continued  the  fun  till 
everybody  was  roused  out.  Next  a raid  upon  us  was  proposed,  but, 
fortunately,  was  not  carried  out.  If  we  had  seen  blanketed  forms 
climbing  the  road  to  our  camp  there  would  certainly  have  been  one 
dead  mock -Indian;  and  after  that,  probably,  there  would  have  been 
three  dead  surveyors. 

With  the  exception  of  our  rapid  run  southward,  when  Mr.  Jackson 
and  myself  photographed  and  brought  to  light,  for  the  first  time,*  the 
wonderful  ruins  of  the  Cliff-dwellers  of  the  Mancos,  Hovenweep,  and 
neighboring  canons  (the  story  of  which  cannot  well  be  told  here),  we 
had  no  other  adventures  of  note  before  or  during  our  speedy  return  to 
civilization,  except  one,  down  on  the  Mesa  Verde,  personal  to  myself, 
which  is  related  in  a subsequent  chapter. 


* The  first  publication  of  this  matter  was  my  letter  to  the  New  York  Tribune, 
printed  November  3,  1874, 


STARTING  ON  A NEW  EXCURSION. 


127 


XVII. 

Time  was  when  a traveller  must  begin  his  tale  by  an  account,  at 
the  very  least,  of  the  parting  with  his  lachrymose  relatives  at  the  farm- 
house, and  then  continue  through  several  chapters  with  the  small  inci- 
dents of  his  journey,  however  long  or  well  travelled.  Readers  now 
won’t  stand  such  dallying.  Behold  me,  therefore,  at  Rawlins,  Wyo- 
ming, a station  on  the  Union  Pacific  Railway  half-way  between  the  ter- 
rors of  Cheyenne  and  the  horrors  of  Ogden.  This  was  in  1877,  when  I 
was  attached  to  the  division  of  the  United  States  Geological  Survey  for 
Primary  Triangulation,  in  charge  of  Mr.  A.  D.  Wilson — may  the  fates  be 
kind  to  him ! 

Rawlins  stands  upon  the  edge  of  the  infamous  Bitter  Root*^  coun- 
try— a spot  without  a rival  for  miserableness  until  you  come  to  Death 
Valley  or  the  Sand  Hills  of  Idaho.  Nevertheless,  here  is  where  we 
rendezvoused  for  an  excursion  up  into  the  almost  wholly  unknown 
region  lying  south  of  the  Sweetwater  river.  The  less  said  concerning 
Rawlins  the  better.  I need  not  describe  the  outfit  of  a camping  party, 
with  a pack-train  of  mules ; and  so  we  are  quickly  ready  to  mount  and 
be  off  to  where  (we  hope)  sage-brush  will  be  less  abundant,  and  rattle- 
snakes farther  between. 

Moreover,  I shall  make  this  part  of  the  tale  an  itinerary,  although 
such  a journal  is  only  one  step  higher  than  a diary,  and  a diary  is  every 
sensible  man’s  abomination.  Yet  I think  I must  try  the  itinerary  for 
once,  because  the  fact  is,  I am  sending  to  the  printer  almost  unchanged 
the  identical  manuscript  of  my  note-book.  It  was  written  on  the  spot, 
in  the  roughest  of  libraries,  when  the  mules  were  hobbled,  supper  was 
over,  and  the  brier-wood  was  glowing.  If  it  is  a topsy-turvy  sort  of  a 
record,  you  must  remember  that,  like  other  Topsys,  it  wasn’t  made,  but 


* Colonel  Fremont  (“  Narrative,”  p.  163)  says  this  name  was  given  to  this  stream 
by  the  Shoshonee  and  Utah  (Ute)  Indians,  “from  a great  abundance  in  its  valley  of 
a plant  which  affords  them  one  of  their  favorite  roots.” 


128 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


grew  as  we  marched  along,  making  our  triangles  and  collecting  our  in- 
formation. 

June  II. — Twelve  miles  from  Rawlins  to-day,  and  the  present  writ- 
ing is  being  done  under  an  enormous  cottonwood,  in  deadly  fear  that 
the  mosquitoes  may  find  the  scribe  out.  An  insignificant  little  rill  purls 
along  over  black  sand  in  a crevice  three  feet  wide  and  ten  feet  deep, 
and  a dense  growth  of  shrubbery  lines  its  edges.  The  valley  is  known 
as  Brown’s  Hole,  and  it  is  said — but  I cannot  vouch  for  the  truth — that 
Smith’s  Hill  and  Jones’s  Creek  are  within  neighborly  distance.  Whether 
or  not  Robinson  is  mentioned  in  the  illustrious  nomenclature  of  this  dis- 
trict I am  not  informed. 

Leaving  Rawlins  on  our  march  northward,  the  road  led  us  at  once 
up  into  the  bluffs  and  over  an  extensive  grazing  region,  the  absence 
of  sage-brush  being  gratefully  noticeable.  The  soil  is  made  up  of  small 
angular  fragments  of  broken  sandstone,  and  the  surface  of  all  this  re- 
gion (outside  of  the  lofty  ranges)  consists  of  a series  of  grassy  slopes, 
from  one  to  five  miles  long,  rising  smoothly  toward  the  west,  and  ter- 
minating in  a precipitous  cliff  of  exposed  sandstone,  at  the  bottom  of 
which,  perhaps,  is  a rill  of  water,  and  then  begins  the  slope  of  another 
grassy  hill-side.  The  faces  of  the  cliff  have  been  worn  more  or  less  into 
dry  fiords  and  promontories,  and  in  some  places  have  been  quite  cut 
through.  But  for  many  miles,  frequently,  the  rock  rises  perpendicularly 
one  or  two  hundred  feet,  nowhere  affording  a chance  for  a horse  to  get 
up  or  down,  unless  he  be  endowed  with  the  volatility  of  Don  Quixote’s 
steed.  It  usually  happens,  too,  that  some  of  the  strata  in  the  face  of 
the  bluff  will  be  harder  than  the  rest.  These  will  withstand  longest 
the  wear  and  tear  of  the  “ elements,”  and  the  result  is  that  the  cliff  will 
have  a series  of  horizontal  shelves  running  in  and  out  of  all  its  sinuosi- 
ties of  front  along  the  entire  length. 

Seen  from  a commanding  point  the  landscape  fashioned  by  this 
geology  is  very  peculiar.  If  you  are  standing  on  the  dividing  ridge,  so 
as  to  look  at  both  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  slopes,  you  will  perceive  at 
once  that  all  the  cliffs  face  you,  and  behind  each  recedes  a grassy  slope. 
This  is  true  on  both  sides  of  the  Divide.  The  reason  is  patent.  After 
the  sandstones  had  been  laid  down  the  mountains  were  slowly  elevated, 
carrying  the  sandstones  resting  against  their  sides  and  over  their  lower 
portions  up  with  them.  Then  the  edges  of  the  uplifted  strata  were 
eroded  away  little  by  little,  until  now  you  see  in  the  cliffs  only  the  worn 
edges  of  the  ancient  beds.  Sometimes  there  is  only  a slight  outcrop, 
appearing  like  a stone  fence  running  across  the  bluish  plain  ; and  often 


PICTURES  ALONG  THE  ROAD. 


129 


the  cliffs  show  thick  red  sandstones,  and  resemble  vast  brick  walls  go- 
ing to  ruin. 

There  is  very  little  life  on  these  uplands.  I saw  several  antelopes 
as  they  hurried  away  from  the  approach  of  our  noisy  pack-train,  and 
watched  them  as  they  paused  on  the  edge  of  a distant  cliff,  alert  and 
graceful,  silhouetted  against  the  soft  sky.  A few  birds — not  many — 
were  seen,  and  our  mules  shied  once  at  a rattlesnake  that  glided  out 
of  our  path  in  a hurry,  his  tail  sounding  the  rasping  alarm  as  he  went. 
The  mules  are  terribly  afraid  of  these  reptiles,  which  are  abundant  all 
through  here,  giving  their  name  to  a range  of  rocky  hills  a few  miles 
east  of  this  point.  Marvellous  stories  are  told  of  their  abundance  about 
Fort  Steele,  and  we  killed  some  at  our  last  camp,  where  we  lived  in 
constant  dread  of  their  coming  to  sleep  with  us.  The  natives,  neverthe- 
less, affect  a great  “ despige,”  as  Mrs.  Gamp  would  say,  for  them,  and 
seem  rarely  to  suffer  from  their  presence.  The  species  is  that  known  as 
Crotalus  diirissus. 

Half-way  to  this  Brown’s  Hole,  where  we  are  encamped,  and  which 
is  the  first  water,  we  crossed  a little  ridge,  and  could  look  back.  The 
foreground  was  a grayish-green  plain,  intersected  by  ridges  of  yellowish 
rock,  dappled  with  the  moving  shadows  of  clouds,  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  herds  of  cattle.  In  the  middle  distance  were  higher  hills 
and  broken  bluffs,  and  the  horizon  was  full  of  far-away  mountains,  the 
Medicine  Bow  range  on  the  left,  and  the  Grand  Encampment  group  on 
the  right.  Except  the  broad  dome  of  Elk  mountain  all  were  simply 
masses  of  blue,  details  of  form  being  lost  in  the  distance  ; and  over  the 
serrated  outline  of  the  lesser  front  ranges  gleamed  the  solid  snows  of 
the  crowning  heights  behind.  Looking  forward  we  saw  spread  below 
us  a broad  alkali  plain,  with  many  zinc -colored  ponds  and  glistening 
white  patches  of  soda ; and,  on  the  other  side  of  it,  the  short  range  of 
the  Seminole  mountains,  very  noble  at  this  distance  of  twenty  miles. 

Coming  into  camp  this  afternoon  I had  my  first  adventure.  My 
riding  animal  is  Texas  Jack,  a big,  black,  obstinate  mule,  with  a passion 
for  kicking.  I wanted  he  should  go  a certain  way,  and  he  refused,  for 
no  good  reason  that  I could  see.  I spurred  him.  He  jumped,  struck 
on  a loose  bank,  and  fell  heavily.  I managed  to  kick  free  from  the 
stirrup,  and  get  some  sort  of  control  over  my  flight,  as  I was  hurled 
from  the  saddle  into  the  briers  and  sage-brush,  but  could  not  get  out  of 
the  way  before  he  stepped  on  my  foot.  It  made  me  cry  out  lustily ; 
but  the  steel  shank  of  my  spur  had  borne  the  weight,  and  my  foot  was 
only  a little  lamed.  I got  out  of  that  with  commendable  agility.  I am 


130 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


sorry.  I have  labored  with  that  mule,  have  tried  to  persuade  him  of 
the  errors  of  his  ways  and  correct  his  manners,  and  this  is  the  result. 
I am  about  discouraged,  and  I sometimes  have  dreary  suspicions  that 
there  is  not  enough  moral  character  in  a mule  to  pay  for  the  expendi- 
ture of  much  missionary  labor.  Qiiien  sabe? 

The  camp  to-night,  as  I have  said,  is  in  a grove  of  ancient  cotton- 
wood-trees, under  which  grows  a dense  underbrush,  hiding  the  ravine 
along  the  bottom  of  which  a trickling  rill  of  pure  water  secretes  itself. 
Close  up  to  this  long,  narrow  line  of  miniature  woodland,  crowding  and 
elbowing  it  almost  over  the  very  brink  of  the  ravine,  presses  the  gaunt, 
vagabondish  sage-brush  ; and  we  have  hard  work  to  grub  away  a suffi- 
cient space  to  pitch  our  tents  and  pile  our  cargo.  After  tea  we  cross 
the  ravine  and  search  a high  plateau  on  the  other  side  for  moss  agates 
and  tinted  pink-and-white  flints.  Of  the  former  we  get  no  first-class 
specimens,  but  an  abundance  of  beautiful  flakes  of  the  latter,  and  plenty 
of  a poor  kind  of  opal.  Some  antelopes  come  pretty  close,  but  we  fail 
to  get  one,  which  is  no  matter,  since  we  have  brought  down  a fine  buck 


THE  CARGO  AND  ITS  CARRIERS. 

during  the  day,  and  have  plenty  of  its  flesh.  I try  to  shoot  an  owl,  also, 
that  excites  my  curiosity ; but  in  the  twilight  he  flies  briskly  away.  At 
last  we  make  up  our  beds  on  the  ground,  down  by  the  cargo,  and  sleep 
soundly  under  the  chilly  stars. 

June  12. — Twenty-five  miles  to-day — and  hard  ones,  too;  but  the 
dreaded  plain  foreseen  yesterday  is  passed,  and  we  are  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains.  Sunrise  saw  us  entering  upon  our  march  over  a trail 


ANTELOPES  AND  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP. 


131 


dry  and  dusty  with  the  saline  exudation  from  the  soil,  that  parched  our 
lips  and  irritated  our  eyes  under  the  blazing  sun.  Through  the  marvel- 
lously clear  air  it  seemed  only  a pleasant  before-breakfast  walk  across 
this  heated  valley  to  the  bald  bluffs  on  the  other  side.  But  at  noon 
these  landmarks  seemed  hardly  nearer,  and  the  sun  was  well  down  the 
west  before  we  stood  in  their  shadow.  Even  then  our  work  was  by  no 
means  done — the  mountains  were  still  “ on  the  other  side.”  The  sandy 
valley  we  had  crossed  was  level,  and  supported  a slim  growth  of  sage- 
brush, buffalo-grass,  cacti,  and  some  gaudy  flowers — two  sorts  of  poppy, 
a mustard,  many  different  wild  peas,  sunflowers,  white  asters,  and  curi- 
ous blossoms  I did  not  know.  Dozens  of  antelopes  had  crossed  our 
path  during  the  morning ; sage-hens  and  jack-rabbits  had  whirled  and 
scudded  from  before  us  continually ; here,  on  the  very  top  of  the  crag, 
were  a group  of  mountain  sheep,  colorless  statues  against  the  sky ; and 
a deer  bounded  away  as  we  came  around  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

They  were  fine  fellows,  those  seven  sheep  ! The  bluff  was,  perhaps, 
four  hundred  feet  high,  with  a vertical  face,  and  they  stood  upon  its 
very  edge,  motionless,  an  old  ram  in  the  front,  with  immense  coiled 
horns  that  doubled  the  size  of  his  head.  They  were  out  of  range  ; but 
we  watched  them  with  our  field-glasses  until,  alarmed,  they  took  them- 
selves out  of  sight.  In  the  remoter  portions  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
this  splendid  animal,  which  used  always  to  be  called  the  “ big-horn,”  is 
still  found  in  considerable  numbers ; and  it  is  so  retiring  in  its  habits, 
loves  such  inaccessible  places,  and  is  so  well  fitted  by  its  endurance  and 
agility  to  escape  from  its  enemies  among  the  cliffs  and  canons  of  its  na- 
tive heights,  that  it  is  not  likely  soon  to  suffer  extermination.  At  the 
same  time,  places  which  knew  it  once  know  it  no  more,  and  civilization 
is  gradually  circumscribing  its  range  and  reducing  its  numbers.  It  is  a 
sheep  in  anatomy  and  appearance,  but  its  habits  are  more  those  of  a 
goat,  for  it  will  climb  to  points  where  wolves  even  dare  not  follow,  and 
make  leaps  from  pinnacle  to  pinnacle,  or  gallop  away  over  the  loose 
rock  on  the  side  of  a mountain,  with  an  ease  that  might  well  make  a 
chamois  envious.  This  seems  very  wonderful  when  we  look  at  their 
ovine,  heavy  form,  great  weight  (for  the  rams  sometimes  weigh  three 
hundred  pounds),  and  the  enormous  horns  coiled  at  the  side  of  the 
head.  It  was  these  that  gave  the  sheep  the  appropriate  common  name, 
“big-horn;”  and  it  used  to  be  believed  that  they  could  throw  them- 
selves down  from  tremendous  heights,  alighting  on  their  horns  without 
injury.  This  was  a fable,  of  course,  arising  from  an  account  of  the  mar- 
vellous leaps  they  really  do  make,  alighting  on  their  feet.  In  early  sum- 


132 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


mer  the  old  hair  is  yellowish  brown,  but  their  new  coats  in  fall  and  win- 
ter are  bluish  white,  and  they  are  then  very  noble-looking  game.  In 
early  morning  and  about  sunset  they  descend  to  the  grassy  plateaus  to 
graze,  but  during  the  middle  of  the  day  keep  among  the  snow-banks,  in 
small  flocks,  when  they  are  exceedingly  wary.  The  day  you  kill  one  is 
a good  day  to  date  from. 

Leaving  this  bluff,  the  rest  of  our  way  lay  through  a sea  of  loose 
sand — drifting  dunes  and  ridges  formed  by  the  wind — sometimes  brown 
with  the  scant  grass  of  the  region,  often  for  a mile  at  a time  perfectly 
naked,  and  ribbed  by  the  wind  as  a shelving  beach  is  ripple -marked 
under  the  waves.  The  horses  sank  to  their  knees,  and  the  rays  of  the 
afternoon  sun  were  reflected  with  a painful  glare. 

But  in  forsaking  the  sheep-crags  we  by  no  means  left  the  game  be- 
hind us.  Just  as  we  turned,  an  old  buck  blacktail  got  up  far  ahead  and 
made  off.  Antelopes  became  more  abundant  and  less  shy  than  ever; 
hares  were  started  every  few  rods,  and  sage-hens  lifted  their  little  heads 
above  the  brush  to  gaze  at  us,  entirely  fearless  of  harm. 

Approaching,  finally,  the  foot  of  the  much -desired  mountains,  we 
came  upon  some  little  duck-ponds  of  blue  water,  fed  by  springs  whose 
soft  banks  were  pitted  with  fresh  hoof-prints  of  elks.  An  elk’s  track 
looks  very  much  like  that  of  a cow,  except  that  it  is  considerably  small- 
er, more  pointed,  and  neater.  Thus  put  upon  the  qui  vive,  we  quickly 
caught  sight  of  a troop  of  them,  far  away  over  the  white  ridges,  trotting 
slowly  away  like  a party  of  mounted  Indians.  It  was  too  late,  and  they 
were  too  far  distant,  to  think  of  following.  Had  we  not  felt  so  confident 
of  meeting  many  more  of  them,  we  might  have  been  more  zealous ; but 
we  knew  they  were  abundant  in  the  region  to  which  we  were  bound. 
Later,  indeed,  we  did  get  a shot  at  a stupid  old  cow,  whose  curiosity 
got  the  better  of  her  discretion.  But  the  whistle  of  a rifle-ball  past  her 
ears  put  a flee  into  them,  and  she  acted  on  the  suggestion  at  a pace 
which  defied  pursuit  from  our  jaded  animals. 

This  was  at  the  farther  edge  of  the  desert,  and  we  were  soon  rising 
out  of  the  level  of  the  old  lake-bed  up  toward  its  rocky  and  ancient 
shores,  now  scantily  clothed  with  long  coarse  grass  and  groves  of  pop- 
lar and  willow  shrubs.  The  line  of  dense  timber  showed  where  a stream 
came  down  from  the  mountains,  and  thither  we  made  our  way  just  as 
the  sun  was  setting.  Turning  from  the  open  plain  into  the  grove,  as 
we  approached  the  spot  selected  for  our  camp  a crash  occurred  in  the 
underbrush,  and  the  huge  form  of  an  elk  appeared  for  an  instant  to  our 
startled  eyes,  and  was  gone  before  anybody  could  shoot.  A few  rods 


SHOOTING  THE  151GHORNS. 


NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  A POPLAR  GROVE. 


135 


beyond  we  camped  in  a dense  grove  of  tall  white-barked  poplars,  by  a 
little  stream  whose  channel  was  so  sunken  in  mossy  and  fern-clothed 
banks  as  to  make  it  almost  subterranean.  The  bright  water  was  soon 
set  boiling,  and  our  bacon  and  antelope  steaks  were  greedily  disposed 
of,  even  though  unaccompanied  by  the  elk-flesh  we  had  hoped  for. 

This  grove  was  the  home  of  a colony  of  Swainson’s  buzzards — hawks 
not  very  different  in  habits  and  appearance  from  our  common  Eastern 
“ redtail”  or  “hen-hawk.”  They  had  built  their  rude  nests  of  sticks,  in 
the  tops  of  the  trees,  from  ten  to  thirty  feet  above  the  ground,  and  kept 
up  a continual  cawing  and  screaming  of  fright  and  protest  at  our  incur- 
sion into  their  domain.  The  females  that  were  sitting  stood  it  out  and 
preserved  the  warmth  of  their  eggs,  but  the  males  were  shy  of  coming 
near.  The  eggs  were  splashed  with  bright  brown  and  yellowish  tints 
like  our  redtail’s ; but  they  varied  considerably.  I saw  bluish-white,  en- 
tirely unspotted  ones  in  the  same  nest  with  those  plentifully  blotched 
with  deep  reddish  brown.  Considering  the  number  of  hawks  there,  the 
absence  of  all  other  birds  except  some  blackbirds  was  not  surprising. 

But  I found  another  specimen  of  natural  history  in  the  shape  of  an 
elk  calf  only  a few  days  old,  which  I nearly  stepped  on  in  wandering 
about  through  the  brush,  looking  for  snails.  It  was  crouching  in  per- 
fect quiet,  and  made  little  resistance  when  I picked  it  up  in  my  arms 
and  carried  it  to  our  fireside.  Of  course  it  was  ungainly  and  awkward 
on  its  legs.  Its  bright  bay  coat  was  spotted  all  over  like  that  of  a 
young  deer-fawn,  and  it  was  the  stupidest  animal  I have  seen  in  a long 
time.  By-the-way,  when  everybody  knows  and  acknowledges  the  elk  as 
a deer,  why  apply  a different  set  of  words?  Couldn’t  we  say  buck  elk 
as  well  as  “ bull  ” elk,  and  doe  instead  of  “ cow,  in  speaking  of  this  spe- 
cies as  well  as  another?  Then  the  young  would  be  fawns,  not  “ calves,” 
which  is  not  only  needless  but  wrong,  for  calf  and  cow  and  bull  are  bo- 
vine, not  cervine,  terms. 

This  youngster  was  all  instinct  and  no  training.  He  well  knew  that 
if  anything  came  near,  his  cue  was  to  lie  perfectly  quiet.  He  copied 
the  traditional  ostrich  whenever  any  one  approached  where  he  was  tied 
and  buried  his  head  in  the  grass.  Now  and  then,  however,  his  longing 
to  see  his  mother  (probably  the  same  elk  we  had  startled  as  we  came  in) 
got  the  better  of  his  prudence,  and  he  began  to  bleat  and  squeal  lustily, 
crouching  hastily  down  after  each  outcry  as  though  frightened  at  his 
own  noise.  In  half  an  hour  he  grew  very  tame,  and  we  watched  him 
with  amusement  until  bed-time,  when  Harry  and  I took  him  back  to  his 
lair,  whence  his  mother  led  him  away  during  the  night. 


136 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XVIII. 

June  13. — To-day  has  been  one  of  climbing,  for  we  ascended  the 
highest  peak  of  the  group  of  mountains  at  whose  foot  we  are  camped. 
It  is  a range  about  a dozen  miles  in  length  and  10,000  feet  in  greatest 
height,  thus  rising  only  about  twenty-five  hundred  feet  above  the  plain. 
It  lies  in  an  east  and  west  direction,  directly  north  of  Rawlins,  from 
which  it  is  about  thirty-five  miles  distant.  The  name  is  said  to  com- 
memorate a visit  made  by  a delegation  of  Florida  Indians  (Seminoles) 
searching  for  a home.  We  know  that  the  Cherokees  once  came  out 
here,  and  a few  Seminoles,  who  are  neighbors  and  kinsmen  of  the  Cher- 
okees, might  have  been  with  them.  Although  holding  quartz  veins,  this 
range  does  not  seem  to  show  any  prospect  of  containing  reasonably 
paying  gold  mines.  A spur  from  the  eastern  end,  however,  is  the  scene 
of  small  diggings  which  are  said  to  have  proved  highly  satisfactory. 

The  ascent  of  the  mountain  was  very  difficult.  We  packed  the 
theodolite,  etc.,  on  a strong  little  mule  named  Molly,  and  rode  up  as  far 
as  we  could — perhaps  two-thirds  of  the  way — through  birch  and  pine 
trees  that  had  been  extensively  killed  by  fires.  A cloud,  dense  and  well 
defined,  hid  the  summit,  and,  after  we  rose  into  it,  shut  out  from  our  view 
everything  except  the  near  foreground.  But  as  we  got  higher  the  sun 
rose  sufficiently  to  look  over  into  the  canon,  when  suddenly  the  heavy 
fog  was  luminous  with  yellow  light,  and  began  to  break  away  from  the 
tree-tops  and  roll  out  over  the  plain.  As  it  slowly  moved  away  there 
loomed  up  right  beside  us,  as  though  advancing  to  our  overwhelming,  a 
mighty  perpendicular  wall  of  rock  that  towered  into  pinnacles  painted 
by  the  sun,  and  shining  hundreds  of  feet  over  our  heads.  Opposite  this 
side  of  the  mountain  rose  a steep,  wooded  slope,  ending  aloft  in  black 
and  broken  ledges  of  granite,  which  glistened  with  dew  and  gleamed 
like  polished  bronze.  They  looked  very  beautiful ; but  when  we  had 
tied  our  mules,  distributed  Molly’s  load  among  us,  and  had  begun  to 
trudge  a mile  up,  and  up,  and  up  over  those  black  and  jagged  ledges, 
and  through  the  soft  snow-banks  which  lay  between,  the  delight  gradu- 


The  view  from  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  the  theodolite  was 
placed  on  a cap-stone  of  glistening  green  granite  (orthoclase,  I believe, 
it  is  termed),  was  very  extended.  At  first  the  fog,  swinging  out  from 
the  mountain,  hung  like  a curtain  below  us  ; but  the  sun  pierced  through 
the  masses  of  white  fleece,  the  wind  tore  them  asunder,  and  the  whole 
drapery  of  the  mist  speedily  vanished.  Then  we  sighted  eastward  to 
the  Elk  mountains,  sixty-five  miles  away ; to  the  massive,  snowy  Medi- 
cine Bow,  behind  it ; to  the  Elkhead  range,  in  Colorado,  south  of  Snake 

10 


CLIMBING  SEMINOLE  PEAK.  137 

ally  subsided,  and  we  were  very  sincerely  glad  to  get  to  the  top.  It  did 
seem  as  though  we  should  never  attain  it ! Peak  after  peak  was  scaled, 
only  to  find  another  beyond.  Mountain-climbing  is  no  fun.  It  attacks 
your  endurance,  your  wind  — tests  your  “bottom,”  as  turfmen  would 
say — in  a way  that  nothing  else  I know  of  equals.  This  is  particularly 
true  of  high  mountains,  where  the  thinness  of  the  air  makes  it  doubly 
difficult  to  fill  your  lungs,  and  you  cannot  run  ten  steps  without  painful 
panting.  The  coming  down  was  about  as  bad  in  this  case,  and,  under 
our  cumbrous  loads,  was  somewhat  dangerous,  since  we  had  to  keep  on 
the  high  granite  crests,  because  of  the  depth  of  the  snow  below,  where 
ordinarily  it  would  be  smooth  travelling. 


“A  STRONG  LITTLE  MULE  NAMED  MOLLY.” 


138 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


river; — sighted  southward  to  Pilot  Butte,  and  Yellow  Butte,  and  Black 
Butte,  scores  of  miles  distant  from  us.  North  of  these,  on  our  western 
horizon,  a hundred  and  twenty-five  miles  westward,  we  gazed  toward 
where  rose  up  the  magnificent  wall  of  the  Wind  River  range,  capped 
with  unblemished  snow,  and  studded  with  peaks  whose  summits  tow- 
ered two  miles  and  a half  above  the  sea. 

A glimpse  northward  was  caught  of  the  far-away,  indistinct  Bighorn 
mountains,  and  north-eastward  lofty  hills  showed  themselves,  isolated 
and  cone-shaped,  “ like  solid  stacks  of  hay but  these  were  all  on  the 
horizon.  From  the  flanks  of  the  pile  of  mossy  and  ancient  rocks  that 
formed  our  pedestal  (and  lay  like  some  sleepy  leviathan,  with  roughened, 
barnacle-grown  back  half-submerged)  on  every  side  stretched  away  the 
green  and  rolling  plains.  Here  and  there  in  this  level  expanse  rose 
little  island -like  “bumps”  of  ragged,  primeval  rocks,  where  the  pines 
grew  thick,  and  the  elk  and  mountain  sheep  hid.  It  was  easy  to  see 
that  all  the  dusty  plain,  with  its  heated  sand-dunes,  that  we  crossed  the 
day  before  yesterday,  was  only  the  bed  of  an  old  lake  ; but  beyond  its 
ancient  banks,  looking  northward,  lay  the  fertile  valley  of  the  Sweet- 
water; and  yet  beyond  this  stretched  the  unmeasurable  plains  of  Wy- 
oming. Here  are  the  future  pastures  for  millions  of  cattle,  and  they 
are  sure  to  be  occupied.  Here  are  water,  grass,  shelter,  and  natural 
boundaries  serving  to  restrict  the  wandering  of  the  cattle  to  join  the 
herds  of  the  Atlantic  slope.  No  better  ranges  could  be  found  any- 
where than  these  plains  afford. 

Coming  down  from  the  mountains,  after  three  hours  of  successful 
triangulation — where  we  were  alternately  broiled  in  a burning  sun  and 
chilled  by  a freezing  wind — we  aroused  two  or  three  herds  of  elks,  the 
last  within  a hundred  yards  of  the  camp-fire  ; but  we  were  not  prepared 
for  the  chase.  When  we  got  into  camp,  however,  Harry  was  found  to 
be  skinning  one  that  he  had  just  shot,  and  the  venison  was  quickly 
frying.  Its  “ sizzle  ” seemed  the  sweetest  sound,  and  its  odor  the  most 
elk-cellent  savor,  that  ever  saluted  the  senses  of  weary  travellers. 

June  14. — Breakfasting  at  sunrise,  the  frost  still  glittering  on  the 
grass,  we  were  packed  up  within  an  hour,  and  marching  westward  over 
the  foot-hills.  For  ten  miles  we  tramped  across  these  ridges  through 
the  most  beautiful  grazing  region  I have  yet  seen.  The  grass  was 
thick  and  tall,  and  some  of  it  headed  out.  Every  depression  had  its 
little  stream  of  pure  cold  water.  At  the  foot  of  the  range,  which  was 
protected  from  northern  winds,  were  plenty  of  trees  for  shade  to  cat- 
tle and  for  building-timber.  Out  on  the  plain  were  the  sand-ridges 


PLEASANT  MEADOWS  AND  FEARLESS  GAME. 


131) 


(always  free  from  snow),  and  the  “soda”  lakes  offering  pure  salt ; while 
every  valley  was  a jewel  of  a site  for  a ranch.  This  fine  country  ex- 
tends all  through  northern  Wyoming,  and  it  would,  no  doubt,  have  been 
of  far  greater  advantage  to  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  had  it  followed 
up  the  North  Platte  to  the  Sweetwater  river,  and  down  it  to  South 
Pass,  instead  of  running  the  line  through  the  desolate  tract  occupied, 
simply  because  along  that  route  it  could  be  finished  a few  months 
earlier.  Perhaps  it  is  better  as  it  is,  however,  since  the  fertile  grass- 
region  is  now  open  to  immigration,  untrammelled  by  railway  claims. 
Fear  of  Indians  has  kept  back  occupation  thus  far,  but  now  this  has 
passed  away. 

It  was  a constant  delight  to  ride  across  the  green  ridges  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains.  They  were  dotted  with  gaudy  flowers,  growing  in 
such  profusion  as  to  throw  great  patches  of  color  upon  the  hill-side, 
and  a faint  sweet  smell  of  tender  grasses  and  myriads  of  wild  blossoms 
was  wafted  to  us  upon  each  breeze.  Then  we  were  entertained  by  the 
unceasing  company  of  big  game.  Antelopes  were  always  in  sight,  and 
we  might  easily  have  shot  a score.  They  would  stand  in  twos  and  threes, 
gaze  at  us  a little  while,  and  then  trot  off,  pausing  every  now  and  then 
to  look  back ; or,  frightened,  would  arch  their  necks  and  prance  away 
in  that  swift,  stiff-legged  gait  peculiar  to  them.  Many  were  fawns.  Ev- 
ery now  and  then  we  would  start  small  bands  of  elk,  or  an  elk  cow  and 
her  calf,  out  of  the  bushes  of  some  little  valley  as  we  came  over  the 
hill,  and  these  would  make  no  haste  to  get  out  of  harm’s  way,  seeming 
not  to  understand  that  we  were  to  be  feared.  Many  others  were  seen 
at  a distance,  for  the  gulches  leading  up  into  the  mountains  were  full 
of  them,  as  also  of  deer;  but  we  did  not  fire  a shot,  not  needing  the 
flesh. 

Several  of  the  small  willow-embowered  creeks  we  forded  were  ob- 
structed at  frequent  intervals  by  beaver-dams  ; and  in  one  valley  we 
surprised  two  large  yellow  wildcats  that  cantered  off  to  some  thickets 
near  by,  where  the  crows  began  to  plague  them,  cawing  vociferously. 
No  buffaloes  were  seen,  although  they  occasionally  wander  near  the 
spot  where  we  are  now  encamped,  nor  any  signs  of  the  presence  of 
bears,  which  is  something  to  be  wondered  at.  Small  game — sage-fowl 
(and  their  broods),  hares,  etc. — were  as  abundant  as  ever;  and  of  course 
that  sneaking  bag  of  bones,  the  coyote,  who,  when  he  runs,  simply 
makes  a streak  along  the  ground,  was  lurking  about  all  the  bluffs. 

The  last  half  of  the  twenty-mile  march  was  rather  hard  and  monot- 
onous. There  was  no  trail — better  than  that  made  by  elks — and  we 


140 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


had  to  pick  our  way  over  a long  series  of  barren  hills  of  marl,  up  a 
narrow  gulch  where  the  sage-brush  was  so  dense  and  tall  as  to  be  dif- 
ficult to  ride  through,  then  over  the  wind-swept  top  of  a high  bluff, 
and  up  again  to  our  camp  in  a willow-grove  near  the  summit  of  Whis- 
key Peak. 

We  have  got  “high”  on  whiskey,  so  to  speak;  but  we  had  water 
in  it.  Just  as  all  the  mules  were  unpacked  the  mountain  became  en- 
veloped in  heavy  clouds,  and  we  had  only  time  to  protect  our  goods 
with  canvas  when  the  snow  and  hail  burst  upon  us.  Dinner  was  cook- 
ing, and  the  process  went  on  to  a successful  end  ; but  the  sleet  drove 
between  our  teeth  with  every  mouthful,  and  one  couldn’t  keep  his  cof- 
fee hot  long  enough  to  drink  it,  except  when  the  coals  from  the  fire 
were  driven  into  the  cup  by  some  eddy  of  the  storm.  Nevertheless  we 
ate  our  fill,  and  enjoyed  it  too.  All  this  time  the  sun  was  shining,  for 
through  the  white  veil  of  snow  we  could  see  the  blue  sky  out  over  the 
valley ; but  the  mountain  was  dark  as  ink ; and  when  an  especially 
fierce  blast  would  smite  us  we  would  look  at  the  battered  summit  and 
say,  “ Supposing — ?”  for  we  knew  we  were  getting  only  the  switching 
of  the  storm’s  tail. 

The  Seminole  mountains  are  separated  from  contiguous  groups  at 
their  western  extremity  by  a deep  valley  called  Whiskey  Gap.  This  is 
one  of  the  passes  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  slope,  but  it  has  never 
been  much  in  favor.  A wagon-road  from  Rawlins  to  the  Sweetwater 
mining-camps  passes  through  it,  and  some  ox-teams  went  by  to-day. 
The  western  wall  of  the  Gap  rises  into  a shapely  peak  of  glacier  drift, 
grass-mantled  to  its  very  apex,  close  to  which  we  have  our  bivouac. 
An  icy  wind  still  sweeps  across,  and  we  retain  our  cavalry  overcoats, 
albeit  the  sun  shines,  and  a rainbow  dyes  the  western  heaven  ; but  rain 
is  falling  all  around  the  horizon,  as  though  a deluge  were  pouring  over 
the  eaves  of  the  sky.  Seminole  Peak,  where  we  had  our  hard  climb 
yesterday,  stands  out  blue  and  beautiful,  but  its  allurement  for  me  is 
gone.  I have  been  there,  and  fully  appreciate 


“ ’T  is  dista7icc  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue.” 


“MAKING  A STATION.” 


141 


XIX. 

June  15. — The  night  was  wet  and  cold,  but  the  morning  broke  clear 
and  frosty,  and,  after  an  early  breakfast,  some  of  us  rode  up  to  the  top 
of  Whiskey  Peak,  to  make  a topographical  station.  It  w^as  an  excellent 
point  for  the  purpose,  because  of  its  isolation,  although  not  as  high  as 
timber-line  even.  It  generally  happens  that  from  a summit  you  can 


TOPOGRAPHERS  AT  WORK. 


look  at  most  in  only  three  directions,  because  of  neighboring  heights 
cutting  off  the  view,  but  the  whole  horizon  was  open  from  this  sta- 
tion, and  on  every  side  the  country  lay  spread  out  before  us  like  a map 
in  an  area  two  hundred  miles  in  diameter.  We  were  thus  enabled  to 
take  the  bearings  of  Seminole  Peak,  Rattlesnake  Peak,  Elk  Mountain, 
Mount  Steele,  Mount  Rawlins,  Hart’s  Peak,  Separation  Peak,  the  Grand 

10'=^ 


142 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


Encampment  group,  Black,  Pilot,  and  Yellow  buttes;  the  whole  mag- 
nificent Wind  River  range,  with  its  snowy,  resplendent  peaks;  the  hills 
along  Owl  creek  and  those  along  Powder  river ; behind  them  the  hoary 
heads  of  the  far-away  Bighorns ; and,  lastly — for  I began  in  the  east 
and  have  followed  around  the  circle — Laramie  Peak,  away  on  the  other 
side  of  Laramie  plains.  Channing  could  not  have  enjoyed  a better 
occasion  than  this  for  his  line : 

“ Sierras  long 

In  archipelagoes  of  mountain  sky.” 

On  a clear  day  the  whole  visible  earth  is  mapped  out  before  the 
observer  who  stands  on  such  a mountain-top.  All  the  features  of  the 
landscape  take  their  proper  place,  and  their  true  relations  to  each  other 
are  perceived.  You  see  at  once  how  closely  these  apparently  isolated 
ridges  are  connected  into  systems,  broken  now,  but  perfectly  apparent 
ages  ago,  could  you  have  looked  upon  them  then.  It  suggests  the 
slow  modifications  that  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  constantly  undergo- 
ing. You  comprehend  at  a glance  that  the  winding  creeks  must  run 
just  the  way  they  do,  inexplicable  though  it  seems  as  you  follow  their 
gorges,  because  the  hills  are  placed  in  a manner  that  precludes  any 
other  channels.  Indeed,  a skilful  man  can  tell  where  the  great  rivers 
run,  and  construct  a copy  of  the  whole  drainage  scheme  of  the  country, 
without  seeing  a single  drop  of  water.  Tracing  your  late  pathway 
across  the  previously  unknown  region,  you  can  easily  suggest  improve- 
ments. This  hill  might  have  been  ascended  so  much  more  easily  a 
little  farther  to  the  eastward  ; that  miry  spot  avoided  by  going  over 
the  low  ridge  just  west  of  it;  that  plain  crossed  in  a far  straighter  line, 
if  only  you  had  known  just  what  to  steer  for.  The  bluff  that  hid  the 
mountain  so  long,  as  you  marched  past,  is  a very  small  affair  now,  sur- 
passed by  many  other  insignificant  hills ; and  the  weary  circle  of  the 
lake  you  thought  so  large  hardly  makes  a spot  in  the  broad  picture. 
You  profit  by  the  opportunity  to  look  ahead,  and  take  a sketch,  or 
a mental  memorandum  of  to-morrow’s  course.  To  gaze  from  a high 
mountain  is  to  travel,  and  it  tends  to  rid  a man  of  his  egotism. 

The  finest  weather  is  in  October.  Then  the  air  is  still,  the  dry 
ground  gives  up  no  mists,  and  the  mountains  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
world  stand  in  serene  and  leisurely  content,  with  cool  and  freshly-blue 
brows.  At  that  season  only  are  clear  days,  for  in  summer  there  is 
ever  a purplish  haze  upon  the  horizon,  as  ethereal  as  the  scenery  of 
dreams,  obliterating  all  features  except  the  outline  of  the  crests  of  the 
ranges,  and  even  those  broad  contours  are  bereft  of  all  jutting  points. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  ROCKIES. 


143 


and  toned  down  to  great  smooth  lines.  On  the  horizon,  in  a bright, 
cloudless  day,  the  sky  is  white,  or  faintly  tinted  like  the  inside  of  a 
shell ; but  as  there  is  an  imperceptible  gradation  in  the  atmosphere 
from  the  hazy  purple  of  the  horizon’s  dark  mountain-wall  to  the  radiant 
air  next  you,  so  is  there  a fine  opposite  deepening  of  tint  from  the 
opalescent  white  behind  the  peaks  up  to  a depth  of  perfect  azure  over- 
head that  is  beyond  all  dreams  of  sky-color.  It  is  such  solid,  opaque 
blue — yet  luminous  to  ineffable  depths — as  I have  never  seen  from  the 
lowlands.  It  is  an  all-day  study  to  note  the  varying  effects  of  the  sun- 
light, changing,  reflected,  and  refracted,  upon  the  world  viewed  from  a 
mountain’s  summit.  Snow  is  visible  at  an  enormous  distance,  no  mat- 
ter what  its  background.  Tennyson  knew  this  when  he  wrote  that 
perfect  bit  of  Alpine  description  : 

“ Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 

And  white  against  the  cold  white  sky 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows.” 

June  17. — Our  camp  at  Whiskey  Peak  was  just  east  of  the  Conti- 
nental Divide — the  backbone  of  the  continent,  or  water-shed  between 
the  two  oceans.  We  crossed  it  through  a grassy  depression,  hardly  no- 
ticing the  fact,  but  a very  large  part  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  were  in 
view.  It  is  hardly  decided  as  yet  among  geographers,  by -the -way, 
what  ultimately  shall  be  defined  as  the  main  range,  and  what  shall  be 
considered  subsidiary  groups  and  spurs ; that  is,  it  remains  to  be  de- 
termined just  where  the  sinuous  dividing  ridge  between  the  Atlantic 
and  Pacific  shall  be  drawn.  Considerations  of  geography  and  geology 
are  both  to  be  looked  at ; and  it  is  quite  possible  that  there  may  arise 
irreconcilable  differences  between  these  two  sets  of  facts ; so  that  two 
“divides”  may  result — a geologic  and  also  a geographic  one — just  as 
the  true  north  and  south  line  fails  to  coincide  with  the  magnetic  me- 
ridian. In  that  case  it  will  probably  happen  that  the  divergence  will 
be  greatest  north  of  Colorado,  the  geologists  holding  that  their  divide 
trends  eastward,  while  the  geographers  will  claim  the  actual  water-shed 
here  at  the  west. 

Unlike  the  Andes,  the  Rocky  Mountains  are  broken  into  a series  of 
groups,  ranges,  and  cross-ranges  of  about  equal  altitude,  and  connected 
by  high  plateaus.  It  is  only  in  a few  places  that  they  present  the  or- 
derly rank  seen  in  the  front  range  in  Colorado,  between  Pike’s  Peak 
and  the  Wyoming  line,  where  they  face  the  plains.  Elsewhere  they 
stand  in  confused  masses,  for  the  most  part. 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


U4: 

The  origin  of  the  name,  also,  is  a matter  of  inquiry.  The  first  ap- 
proach to  the  term  Rocky  Mountains  is  said  to  be  found  in  Bellion’s 
Map  of  North  America,  published  in  Charlevoix’s  “History  of  New 
France,”  in  1743,  where  they  are  called  Montagues  des  Pierres  Brillants. 
The  word  Rocky  Mountains  first  appears  on  a map  in  “Morse’s  Amer- 
ican Geography,”  dated  1794;  while  in  the  text  of  the  edition  of 
1789  they  are  still  called  the  Shining  Mountains.  The  name,  however, 
seems  to  have  been  firmly  established  in  the  time  of  Lewis  and  Clarke, 
whose  trail,  by-the-bye,  we  are  almost  following  through  this  portion  of 
the  country.  It  is  probable  that  both  “Rocky”  and  “Shining”  are 
translations  of  Indian  words  learned  by  the  early  map-makers  from 
trappers.  Most  of  the  names  of  the  lesser  ranges  have  this  origin,  or,  at 
least,  were  named  by  the  old  trappers  employed  by  the  fur  companies 
years  and  years  ago.  Witness  Saguache,  Uncompahgre,  Uinta,  Wah- 
satch.  Medicine  Bow,  Shoshonee,  Wyoming,  for  Indian  terms.  The  ear- 
ly trappers  and  explorers  at  the  North  were  mostly  Frenchmen,  while 
those  at  the  South  were  Spaniards.  Both  left  their  language  in  desig- 
nating the  geography  of  the  new  regions  they  visited.  Every  town  in 
New  Mexico,  Arizona,  and  Southern  California  begins  with  a San;  every 
old  fort  north  of  the  fortieth  parallel  was  called  after  some  Saint. 

Some  of  these  primitive  names  we  have  since  translated.  Powder 
river,  so  often  mentioned  of  late  in  despatches  from  the  Indian  fighters, 
was  first  known  as  Cache  la  Poudre.  Half  the  Indian  tribes  have  lost 
their  own  names  under  the  titles  given  them  by  the  French  traders  or 
Spanish  priests.  Such  cases  are  the  Gros  Ventre  and  Nez  Perce  tribes 
of  the  North-west,  and  the  Pimas  and  Cocopas  of  the  Gila  valley,  in  Ar- 
izona. The  early  appellations  almost  always  had  some  special  signifi- 
cance, and  are  worthy  of  respect,  but  when  the  gold-miners  began  to 
overrun  the  mountains  and  tack  a name  to  every  spot  where  they  camp- 
ed, their  designations  became  frivolous  and  inadequate.  We  shall  be 
sorry  and  ashamed,  some  of  these  days,  that  the  most  glorious  spots  on 
the  American  continent  are  demeaned  by  names  so  trivial.  Who  would 
be  willing  to  change  Yosemite  to  Smith’s  Hole?  Yet  equally  shocking 
christenings  have  taken  place  everywhere.  The  largest  rivers  on  the 
Western  Slope,  draining  all  these  mountains,  are  simply  the  Green,  Blue, 
White,  Snake,  and  Grand ; and  the  great  artery  they  go  to  swell  is  only 
the  Red  river — Rio  Colorado.  In  the  North  you  find  worse  names — 
Stinking-water  river.  Bad  river.  Crazy-woman’s  fork,  No-Wood  creek. 
Bitter  creek.  Horse,  and  Goose,  and  Wolf,  and  so  on,  for  beautiful, 
plenteous  streams.  But  worst  of  all  is  the  habit  lately  introduced  of 


ON  THE  SWEETWATER  PLAINS. 


145 


naming  noble  mountains,  reaching  up  into  an  ever-living  purity,  after 
politicians  whose  schemings  and  tricks  a coyote  would  scorn  to  avail 
himself  of.  Is  there  such  a paucity  of  adjectives  in  our  language?  The 
Chinese  go  to  the  opposite  extreme  in  their  flowery  nomenclature  ; but 
that  is  better  than  calling  a peak,  whence  your  eye  may  take  in  ten 
thousand  square  miles  of  unexcelled  scenery,  after  a dram  of  whiskey  ! 


THE  SWEETWATER  PLAINS. 


From  Camp  4 to  5 the  road  led  over  sage-grown  ridges  along  the 
southern  foot  of  the  Sweetwater  hills,  the  direction  being  westward, 
and  the  distance  about  fifteen  miles.  Elk  in  small  bands,  several  ac- 
companied by  young  calves,  were  visible  all  along,  and  antelopes  were 
constantly  in  sight,  so  unconcerned  that  they  would  not  even  get  upon 
their  feet  as  we  rode  by.  On  one  of  the  hills  an  old  buffalo  bull  was 
grazing  all  alone,  and  our  hunters  started  after  him.  But  our  hopes  of 
seeing  a chase  were  baffled,  for  the  old  fellow  carried  his  heavy  mop 
and  long  goatee  up  the  bluff  and  over  its  top  at  such  a rate  as  made 
the  catching  of  him  highly  unprofitable  labor.  He  was  one  that  might 
have  sustained  a noble  part  in  such  a head-to-head  struggle  with  an 
elk  as  Mr.  William  Cary  has  so  graphically  depicted  in  his  well-known 
paintings. 

The  camp  that  evening  was  made  toward  sunset  in  a little  grassy 


146 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


glade  on  the  bank  of  a creek  hidden  in  bushes,  by  a path  where  the 
deer  come  down  to  drink  of  the  pure  cold  water.  The  willow  branches 
were  all  rubbed  bare  and  the  new  twigs  gnawed  off  by  elks.  Just  above 
us  was  a beaver  dam,  and  there  were  small  trout  in  the  stream  ; but 
our  luck  in  catching  them  was  limited. 

I do  not  know  when  I have  seen  so  many  small  birds  in  one  place 
since  I left  the  States,  particularly  warblers  and  fly-catchers.  As  I lay 
idly  under  one  of  the  bushes  a tiny  warbler,  all  lemon-yellow,  except 
some  reddish  streaks  on  the  sides  and  breast,  alighted  on  the  branches 
within  reach  of  my  arm,  not  seeing  me,  and  began  to  warble  its  delicate 
song.  It  was  an  old  acquaintance,  the  common  summer  yellow- bird 
that  builds  its  nest  in  your  lilac-bush  ; it  did  not  seem  to  recognize  me 
at  first,  but,  a moment  later,  espying  me,  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a bar 
and  darted  off.  Other  birds  came,  many  of  them  strangers,  with  sweet 
music  and  soft  pJiit  of  pretty  wings ; and  at  last  I saw  a dandy  of  a spar- 
row (the  white-crowned,  Zonotrichia  Iciicophrys),  whose  plumage  is  bright 
chestnut-brown  above,  marked  with  black  and  ash-color,  and  a satiny 
white  below,  and  whose  black  cap  is  set  off  by  heavy  zigzag  bars  of 
white  from  the  base  of  the  pink  bill  back  over  the  head,  and  above  each 
eye — I saw  this  gay  fellow  enter  an  archway  of  dead  grass  by  the  side 
of  the  brook.  I knew  it  was  its  home,  and,  creeping  near,  almost  caught 
the  bird  on  its  nest ; but  it  eluded  my  hand  and  flew  to  a branch  near 
by,  chirping  loudly,  like  the  clicking  of  a stiff  gun-lock.  That  was  its 
alarm-call,  and  its  mate  was  soon  by  its  side,  full  of  anxiety.  The  nest 
was  carefully  woven  of  grass  — coarse  stalks  outside,  and  fine  blades 
within,  and  was  warmly  lined  with  elk’s  hair.  It  was  sunk  in  among 
the  grass-roots,  and  so  snugly  concealed  in  the  long  nodding  tufts* — for 
the  bird  had  made  a sort  of  tunnel  underneath  the  grass  by  which  to 
enter — that  hardly  a weasel,  much  less  a hawk,  would  have  discovered 
it.  There  was  one  egg,  greenish-white,  dotted — profusely  at  the  great 
end,  and  thinly  at  the  sharper  end — with  a pepper-and-salt  of  brown  and 
red.  This  single  egg  was  all  the  nest  contained  ; but  when  I looked 
again  at  sunrise  the  next  morning  a second  one  was  by  it  — the 
mother-bird  had  done  her  day’s  work  early. 

How  circumspect  the  birds  are  ! I had  my  eye  on  the  sparrow,  as  it 
flitted  about  the  bush  in  well-affected  unconcern,  uttering  a simple  re- 
frain and  seeming  not  to  mind  me,  for  half  an  hour  before  it  got  cour- 
age to  slip  into  its  nest,  to  see  if  all  was  safe.  Try  to  force  a secret  from 


* See  p.  38. 


RESULT 


A CONFLAGRATION  IN  CAMP. 


151 


a bird,  and  you  are  sure  of  failure : have  patience  to  keep  perfectly  still, 
and  he  will  show  you  his  inmost  heart.  There  was  no  end  of  them 
about  that  day,  mainly  sparrows — sweet  singers  ; but  the  golden-mouth- 
ed leader  of  the  choir  was  the  mountain  mockingbird  {Orcoscoptes  mon- 
tanns),  whose  versatile  fluting  is  heard  morning  and  evening  on  these 
plains  as  he  rejoices  over  his  happy  home  in  the  sage-bush.  He  is  a rel- 
ative of  the  Southern  mockingbird,  and  also  of  the  brown  thrasher  of 
Northern  orchards.  Probably  his  melody  is  not  equal  to  that  given  by 
either  of  those  musicians,  but  it  has  a wild  sweetness  in  it,  as  he  readily 
runs  the  scale  of- all  the  other  bird-songs  of  the  plains,  and  his  music  is 
so  varied  that  you  never  tire  of  it.  I hear  this  pleasant  voice,  like  a ves- 
per hymn,  long  after  the  twilight  has  melted  into  darkness  and  the  per- 
former is  hidden  from  view ; and  now  that  moonlight  has  come  again  I 
shall  hope  that  it  may  mingle  with  my  dreams,  attuning  them  to  its 
tender  melody. 

There  is  something  new  and  peculiar  about  each  successive  camp 
which  stamps  it  individually  upon  the  memory.  I shall  always  remem- 
ber Camp  No.  i as  our  starting-point;  No.  2,  because  there  my  mule 
fell  and  stepped  on  me;  No.  3 was  the  scene  of  the  climb  to  Seminole 
Peak,  and  the  place  where  we  caught  the  calf -elk;  Camp  4,  for  the 
storm  and  the  wide  outlook;  Camp  5,  on  account  of  the  fire  and  the 
stampede  of  the  mules;  Camp  No.  6,  because  of  the  lack  of  water; 
Camp  7,  bad  lands,  coyotes,  and  the  patching  of  my  trousers — a spec- 
tacle for  gods  and  men  ! 

The  fire  at  Camp  5 caught  in  the  sage-brush  and  bushes  along  the 
creek  from  the  cook’s  fire,  while  our  backs  were  turned,  and  spread  with 
such  extraordinary  rapidity  that  we  had  an  hour’s  hard  fight  to  save 
our  goods.  Many  and  many  a camp  outfit  has  been  burned  on  these 
plains  in  the  same  way.  The  sage-brush  is  as  inflammable  as  tinder,  the 
living  shoots  burning  as  readily  as  the  dead  stems,  and  with  surprising 
heat,  making  most  excellent  fuel. 

Between  the  Seminole  and  Rattlesnake  mountains  and  Camp  Stam- 
baugh,  and  from  the  rugged  hills  south  of  the  Sweetwater  river  (which 
takes  its  source  at  the  southern  end  of  the  Wind  River  mountains,  and 
flows  easterly  to  the  North  Platte),  southward  to  the  Union  Pacific 
Railroad,  stretches  an  expanse  of  rolling  plain,  interrupted  by  no  moun- 
tains deserving  the  name,  covered  with  good  grass,  and  tolerably  well 
watered.  It  is  through  this  country  that  we  have  been  passing  for  the 
last  week. 

As  we  marched  westward  from  the  Continental  Divide  the  soil  be- 


152 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


came  more  dry,  the  country  more  rough,  many  of  the  valleys  taking 
the  form  of  great  basins  surrounded  by  precipitous  hills  of  glacial  drift, 
sandstone,  or  marl,  which  showed  steep  cliffs  of  rock  or  earth,  and  gave 
rise  to  very  few  springs.  For  three  days  before  reaching  here  it  was 
with  difficulty  we  found  good  water  to  camp  by  at  night,  and  what  we 
did  find  was  scant  in  quantity.  The  grass,  however,  is  good  for  cattle, 
and  in  the  driest  portion  there  are  large  lakes  here  and  there,  which 
have  been  supplied  by  springs.  This  area,  a tract  about  one  hundred 
and  seventy-five  miles  long  by  one  hundred  wide,  contains  no  settle- 
ments, those  northward  being  the  little  mining- camps  of  St.  Mary’s, 
Atlantic  City,  and  others  on  the  Sweetwater;  South  Pass  City,  in  South 
Pass ; and  Camp  Stambaugh  ; and  those  on  the  south  being  the  sparse 
stations  along  the  railway.  Our  route  took  us  to  this  place  by  the  way 
of  Yellow  Butte,  a prominent  point  twenty-five  miles  south,  whence  we 
came  directly  hither  in  one  day’s  hide.  At  Yellow  Butte  we  struck 
“ bad  lands,”  by  which  is  meant  hills  of  marl  or  clay,  carved  into  cubic, 
isolated  bluffs,  or  worn  into  fantastic  ridges  and  pinnacles,  by  running 
water  and  frost.  They  are  utterly  destitute  of  any  vegetation,  except 
some  sage-brush  along  the  plains  scattered  among  them,  and  the  neigh- 
borhood is  cut  into  miniature  canons,  with  perpendicular  walls  of  mud, 
by  the  torrents  which  the  violent  spring  storms  cause.  The  earth  is  gul- 
lied by  rains  and  cracked  by  the  baking  sun  ; worn  full  of  sink-holes, 
whence  the  drainage  of  the  plains  finds  its  way  to  the  streams  (dry  three- 
fourths  of  the  year)  through  subterranean  passages ; and  abounds  in  ex- 
cavations made  by  water  in  the  sides  of  the  bluffs.  These  holes  and 
crannies  are  the  chosen  haunts  of  wolves,  whose  long-drawn  and  lugu- 
brious howls  resounded  in  our  ears  all  night,  more  to  our  disgust  than 
terror.  There  were  both  coyotes  and  big  gray  wolves,  and  they  sub- 
sisted mainly  upon  the  fawns  of  antelopes ; but  the  coyotes  often  have 
a hard  tussle  to  get  the  little  one,  for  the  mother  will  fight  fearlessly. 
We  witnessed  one  coyote  doing  his  level  best  to  get  away  from  the 
sharp  fore-hoofs  of  a doe  whose  fawn  he  had  been  after.  How  effect- 
ually these  sharp  hoofs  may  be  used  as  weapons  against  another  enemy 
— the  rattlesnake — the  opposite  woodcut  well  portrays. 

These  bad  lands  are  rather  picturesque  in  their  desolation.  The 
bluffs  are  abrupt,  and  generally  domed  ; some,  however,  are  perfectly 
square  and  flat  on  top  ; while  one  near  our  camp  was  a perfect  man- 
sard-roofed cottage,  dormer-windows  and  all,  and  another  was  round, 
flaring  above,  and  concave  on  the  summit.  The  earth,  as  I mentioned, 
is  cretaceous  marl,  in  differently  colored  layers — yellowish-white,  blue. 


TROXGIIORN  ANTELOPES  KILLING  A RATTLESNAKE 


L.yS'  ■ 


FIGURATIVELY  SPEAKING! 


155 


lead-color,  and  red — so  that  some  of  the  round,  pillar-like  bluffs  look 
like  a huge — I was  going  to  say  lady’s  stocking;  but  I won’t.  “ Huge  ” 
is  a wrong  adjective  in  such  a simile. 

All  this  time  the  beckoning  heights  of  the  grand  Wind  River  range, 
“hull-down”  in  the  northern  horizon,  showed  us  mighty  spars  and 
splendid  breadths  of  snowy  canvas  cutting  their  way  steadily  through 
the  clouds — 

“ Like  some  vast  fleet, 

Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet ; 

Through  winter’s  cold  and  summer’s  heat. 

“ Ships  of  the  line,  each  one. 

Ye  to  the  westward  run. 

Always  before  the  gale. 

Under  a press  of  sail. 

With  weight  of  metal  all  untold.” 


156 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XX. 

Though  it  had  been  in  sight  for  many  days,  our  introduction  to 
the  range  at  last  was  abrupt,  since  only  one  day’s  long  march  (on  the 
last  of  June)  carried  us  out  clear  of  the  dusty  plains,  past  vast  gate- 
ways of  water-worn  granite,  up  through  the  rough  foot-hills,  and  fairly 
toward  the  summit.  The  mountain  was  nameless  then,  but  now  it 
figures  on  the  maps  as  Wind  River  Peak,  and  it  is  the  southernmost, 
and  almost  the  highest,  mountain  of  the  whole  magnificent  series. 

Every  one*who  has  spent  long  periods  of  time  in  the  wilderness 
understands,  notwithstanding  a halting-ground  may  become  dirty  and 
bedraggled,  so  that  a change  is  agreeable,  how  a strange  familiarity  yet 
attaches  even  to  a bit  of  brook  and  mountain  side ; and,  knowing  there 
is  no  better  representation  of  Jloihc  within  many  hundred  miles,  how 
easily  it  is  given  that  name.  “ Let  us  wander  where  we  will,”  says  Tho- 
reau,  the  universe  is  built  round  about  us,  and  we  are  central  still.” 
Nowhere  did  this  home -like  feeling  assert  itself  more  (and  with  less 
good  reason)  than  to  this  first  mountain  camp  high  up  at  the  very 
sources  of  the  great  Sweetwater — perhaps  because  we  invaded  angry 
solitudes,  and  boldly  held  our  own  in  spite  of  every  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  well-roused  spirits  of  the  place.  The  trees  there  Avere  all  pines, 
and  stood  thickly,  but  were  not  of  great  size,  though  straight  and  tall. 
Many  lay  at  full  length  upon  the  ground,  for  they  had  but  shallow  root- 
hold  among  the  bowlders ; and  the  very  first  night  the  forest  treated  us 
to  an  exhibition  of  its  power  to  injure — a hint,  perhaps,  that  we  would 
better  not  violate  its  sacred  shades  by  our  presence  and  consume  its 
royal  timber  in  our  paltry  camp-fire.  “ When  I Avant  fire,”  the  forest 
seemed  to  say,  “ I rub  my  limbs  together,  and  the  flames  SAveep  for 
miles  through  my  oily  cones  and  dry  tops,  that  love  the  blaze !”  The 
trunks  bes^an  to  fall  all  around  us — dozens  at  a time  — Avhile  the  air 
Avas  full  of  tremendous  sounds  of  concussion  and  the  screams  of  rend- 
ing fibres.  But  not  one  of  those  mighty  bolts  harmed  us,  beyond  the 
crushing  of  a single  tent ; and  Avhen  the  hurricane  Avas  over  Ave  found 


ALPINE  EXPLORATION.  157 

our  fire-wood  close  at  hand,  ready  cut,  so  profiting  by  the  anger  of  the 
resentful  gods. 

The  object  of  making  this  camp  just  here — the  most  elevated  point 
to  which  the  mule-train  could  be  led — was  to  ascend  the  peak  and  make 
topographical  observations  from  its  summit. 

This  peak,  as  I have  said,  had  long  been  our  guiding-point — a per- 
fect cone  with  apex  as  sharp  as  a pencil -point,  and  of  such  unblem- 
ished shining  white  that  even  the  telescope  failed  to  show  any  bare 
ground.  It  was  therefore  with  some  doubts  of  the  success  of  the  mor- 
row’s venture  that  we  gathered  round  the  fire  the  night  before,  where 
chilling  winds,  freighted  with  snow,  swept  down  from  the  frosty  heights 
around  us,  and  even  the  splashing  of  the  water  in  the  tumbling  torrent, 
struggling  on  its  way  to  the  peaceful  plains,  had  an  icy  ring. 

But  when  we  unrolled  from  our  stiffened  blankets  in  the  gray  of  the 
next  dawning  the  sky  was  clear,  giving  deceitful  promise  of  a fair  day. 
A solid  breakfast  soon  eaten,  Mr.  Wilson,  Harry,  and  myself  were  early 
in  the  saddle,  with  a sure-footed  little  mule  to  carry  the  instruments. 

It  had  been  observed  when  approaching  the  range  that  a deep  de- 
pression separated  the  peaks  here,  and  at  its  head  we  hoped  to  discover 
the  easiest  place  of  access.  How  soon  it  would  be  necessary  to  dis- 
mount and  take  to  our  legs  was  entirely  problematic ; but  resolving  not 
to  do  so  until  absolutely  necessary,  the  animals  were  pushed  on  over 
the  most  discouraging  region  that  ever  a mule  bore  a man,  among 
rocks,  and  woods,  and  bogs,  over  ridges  and  through  gullies,  always  up- 
ward, until  at  the  end  of  about  seven  miles  we  came  out  above  tim- 
ber and  square  against  an  enormous  wall  of  broken  blocks  of  stone, 
which  threw  an  impassable  barrier  across  the  canon  into  which  the 
valley  had  here  contracted. 

Here,  then,  we  unsaddled,  and,  tying  the  animals,  distributed  the 
pack-mule’s  load  between  us,  as  at  Seminole  Peak,  one  taking  the  the- 
odolite, another  the  folding  tripod  upon  which  it  is  mounted,  the  third 
the  tripod-head,  and  so  began  our  climb,  the  character  or  limit  of  which 
we  could  only  conjecture. 

At  first  there  was  little  trouble.  We  turned  westward  up  a long 
canon  filled  with  snow  for  the  most  part,  and  after  a hundred  yards  of 
fallen  rocks  were  crept  over  we  walked  easily  for  a mile  or  more  upon 
an  ice -bridge,  hearing  underneath  the  gurgling  of  the  torrent  which 
flowed  out  to  make  the  Sweetwater  river.  The  air  was  not  uncomfort- 
able, the  ascent  gradual,  and  our  eyes,  not  yet  .pained  by  the  glare,  were 
delighted  with  the  scene.  On  the  right  towered  white  heights,  thou- 


158 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


sands  of  feet  in  altitude ; on  the  left  were  cliffs  of  granite,  from  whose 
top  you  might  drop  a stone  almost  as  far  as  you  could  fire  a pistol-ball 
up  Fifth  Avenue.  In  the  full  light  of  the  sun  the  face  of  this  prodigious 
precipice  shone  salmon-white,  dappled  with  the  shadows  that  its  protu- 
berances cast,  streaked  with  black  lines  of  dripping  water  and  glistening 
with  icicles  ; but  its  chief  and  marvellous  beauty  was  the  manner  in 
which  the  pinnacles  of  its  crest  struck  up  into  the  lambent  azure — no ! 
not  azure,  something  deeper,  more  intense,  and  pathetic.  If  indigo 
could  be  rid  of  its  hardness  and  made  to  look  like  a bluebird’s  back, 
that  would  be  nearer  the  hue  of  this  wondrous  sky. 

So  we  plodded  on  over  the  crisp  snow,  one  behind  the  other,  wast- 
ing no  breath  in  talking,  up  through  the  great  spruces,  up  among  the 
dwarfed  trees  and  bushes  that  were  beaten  close  to  the  ground  by  inces- 
sant tempests,  out  beyond  these  and  over  successive  ridges  till  we  were 
far  above  all  vegetation  except  the  mosses  and  grasses  hidden  under  the 
heaps  of  hard  snow.  We  had  come  a mile  and  a half,  had  climbed  fif- 
teen hundred  feet,  and  had  only  just  caught  sight  of  our  destination. 
It  stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  a great  basin,  rimmed  by  ragged  ridges, 
and  by  snowy  summits  whose  bases  sloped  to  a. common  centre  where  a 
patch  of  black  ice  concealed  a Stygian  lake.  There  was  no  help  for  it 
but  to  go  down  as  deep  as  the  level  from  which  we  had  first  started 
into  the  bottom  of  this  devil’s  punch-bowl,  and  begin  the  ascent  anew 
from  the  lake.  I thought  of  facilis  descensus  Averni  (and  fitter  circum- 
stances for  its  verification  could  not  be  found  in  the  upper  world),  but 
it  failed  to  prove  itself  true.  What  with  hard  falls  on  the  ice  and  mis- 
steps among  the  sharp  rocks,  the  descensus  was  decidedly  difficilis,  yet 
it  was  play  compared  to  what  came  afterward.  The  lake  was  traversed 
at  last,  however,  and  we  struck  across  a long  slope  of  snow  studded 
with  trees  whose  trunks  were  thick  and  gnarled,  but  of  no  great  height. 
The  drifts  of  snow  were  here  from  ten  to  twenty  feet  deep,  yet  they  all 
must  speedily  melt  and  be  carried  away.  We  had  been  asking  whence 
the  Sweetwater,  Popo-Agie,  and  other  rivers  that  seemed  to  have  no 
tributaries,  received  their  large  volumes  of  water.  We  wondered  no 
longer.  Millions  of  cubic  yards  of  snow  remained  to  be  melted,  though 
it  Avas  now  the  beginning  of  July,  the  Sweetwater  feeding  upon  great 
banks  at  the  head  of  the  canon  we  first  came  up.  The  Popo-Agie 
(pronounced  Poposhia)  drains  this  circular  valley  into  the  Wind  river, 
which  itself  flows  into  the  Bighorn,  and  thence  into  the  Missouri. 

The  groves  being  passed,  and  the  vast  snow-fields  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain  stretching  ahead,  the  real  work  begins,  for  the  sun  now  soft- 


A MOUNTAIN  TEMPEST. 


159 


ens  the  snow  so  that  sometimes  you  will  sink  to  the  waist  or  crush 
through  a treacherous  ice -bridge  into  the  cold  water  of  a mountain 
brook.  The  previous  exertions  begin  to  be  felt,  the  load  you  carry 
weighs  you  down,  the  wind  blows  steadily,  and  the  air  seems  charged 
with  spicules  of  ice  piercing  the  skin  like  needles.  But  you  walk  on — 
head  down — teeth  clenched — saving  every  step — never  stopping.  It  is 
three  hours  since  you  left  the  mules,  and  you  have  walked  four  miles 
through  the  snow  and  over  jagged  and  slippery  rocks.  At  the  last 
clump  of  stunted  trees  rooted  in  a sheltered  nook  you  halt  three  min- 
utes to  build  a fire  by  a prostrate  log,  and  thus  provide*  a hospice  for 
your  return. 

Then  you  start  in  for  the  last  mile  to  the  summit,  which  seems 
scarcely  nearer  through  the  transparent  air  than  when  you  first  saw  it. 
Mechanically  your  eye  receives  the  pictures  that  successively  present 
themselves : the  walls  of  granite  rising  on  each  side  in  grim  uprightness 
and  frowning  at  your  intrusion ; the  long  dark  canon,  cutting  the  east- 
ern wall,  through  which  the  snow-banks  drain  away;  the  alabaster  peaks, 
lifting  their  heads  to  the  sky  in  silent  grandeur — eternal  thrones  of  re- 
pose ; the  cerulean  canopy ; the  flocks  of  little  clouds  that  seem  to  have 
been  frightened  from  the  crags,  as  sea-gulls  are  startled  into  the  air  at 
one’s  coming.  You  do  not  strive  to  see  these  things,  or  record  them  in 
your  mind,  as  you  struggle  on  ; only  afterward  you  remember  them. 

Now  you  are  all  lungs  and  feet.  The  “ ever-living  purity  of  the  air” 
is  becoming  a terror.  You  gasp  instead  of  breathe  ; your  tortured  eyes 
are  painting  dancing  rainbows  on  the  snow;  your  ears  are  singing  with 
the  rush  of  the  cold  wind — but  stop  not ! The  slope  grows  steeper — 
dig  your  toes  in  and  go  on!  Your  legs  are  becomdng  brittle  and  your 
knees  unjointed — stand  firm  ! You  slip  and  fall  on  the  glazed  surface- — 
scramble  up,  and  take  a firmer  hold!  Your  breath  grows  short;  your 
mouth  and  throat  are  parched  until  your  tongue  protrudes ; your  stom- 
ach rebels;  your  nerves  are  failing  to  direct  your  muscles;  your  head 
swims  and  a pall  of  darkness  settles  upon  your  mind — rouse  yourself ! 
A few  more  steps — a last  leap — you  fall — but  on  the  summit ! 

This  is  mountain  climbing. 

After  all  this  labor  it  was  hard  to  find  that  nothing  could  be  done. 
The  wind  that  day  blew  a gale  ; the  cold  was  so  intense  that  fingers 
would  freeze  in  ten  minutes;  and  a heavy  snow-storm  came  up  the 
mountain  with  us  to  hide  the  landscape  under  its  thick  veil.  It  was 
capricious  polar  weather,  and  back  we  ran,  slid  or  tumbled  through  snow 
and  ice,  like  traversing  Arctic  floes  with  Kane  or  Franklin,  and  ate  our 


160 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


(very)  cold  lunch  by  the  big  fire  we  had  built  at  our  hospice,  while  the 
thick  gale  howled  about  the  strong,  dark,  desolate  mountain  overhead, 
and  drove  a flock  of  stiffened  snow-birds  to  the  warmth  of  our  smoke. 
We  were  in  a frigid  zone,  and  I fancy  the  Arctic  regions  have  little 
worse  to  offer  a man,  except  their  wearying  continuity.  The  mile  of 
up-hill  work,  where  we  had  descended  from  the  rim  ” of  the  “ punch- 
bowl ” to  the  lake,  still  remained — a very  hard  tug  for  tired  legs  and 
toes,  weary  of  prehensile  service — and  after  that  another  mile  and  a half 
of  tramping  through  the  snow  to  the  mules. 

Now  those  precious  beings,  anticipating  our  coming,  had  prepared  a 
fine  joke ; but,  to  add  hypocrisy  to  treason,  they  welcomed  us  with  so- 
norous brayings  of  joy.  Then  waiting  until  we  were  close  by,  and  could 
well  see  the  fun  of  it,  those  facetious  mules  started  off  on  a run,  having 
broken  their  ropes,  pulled  them  away  from  the  fastenings,  or  bitten 
them  in  two.  Their  sense  of  humor,  however,  made  them  wait  a little 
too  long,  so  that  we  caught  all  but  one  and  trounced  them  well ; the 
hunter  walked  the  seven  miles  to  camp. 

There  was  some  of  the  hardest  work  done  in  the  history  of  the 
Survey  from  the  head-quarters  of  this  camp  ; but  one  night,  when  the 
snow  drifted  steadily  down  on  our  beds  as  we  lay  in  quiet,  I was  not  so 
tired  but  that  I lay  awake  for  hours,  stowing  away  in  the  coffers  of  my 
memory  the  fast-crowding  impressions ; and  perhaps  it  was  those  hours 
of  reflection  that  fixed  all  the  details  of  the  wild  timber-line  camp  so 
firmly  in  my  mind. 

What  a sombre  world  that  of  the  pine -woods  is!  None  of  the 
cheerfulness  of  the  ash  and  maple  groves — the  alternation  of  sunlight 
and  changing  shadow,  rustling  leaves  and  fragrant  shrubbery  under- 
neath, variety  of  foliage  and  bark  on  which  to  rest  the  jaded  eye, 
exciting  curiosity  and  delight:  only  the  straight,  upright  trunks;  the 
colorless,  dusty  ground  ; the  dense  masses  of  dead  green,  each  mass  a 
repetition  of  another ; the  scraggy  skeletons  of  dead  trees,  all  their  bare 
limbs  drooping  in  lamentation.  The  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  pines 
is  equally  grewsome.  If  the  breeze  be  light,  you  hear  a low,  melan- 
choly monody;  if  stronger,  a hushed  kind  of  sighing;  when  the  hur- 
ricane lays  his  hand  upon  them  the  groaning  trees  wail  out  in  awful 
agony,  and,  racked  beyond  endurance,  cast  themselves  headlong  to  the 
stony  ground.  At  such  times  each  particular  fibre  of  the  pine’s  body 
seems  resonant  with  pain,  and  the  straining  branches  literally  shriek. 
This  is  not  mere  fancy,  but  something  quite  different  from  anything  to 
be  observed  in  hard-wood  forests.  There  the  tempest  roars;  here  it 


MELANCHOLY  WOODS  AND  BLITHE  BROOKS. 


161 


howls.  I do  not  think  the  idea  of  the  Banshee  spirits  could  have 
arisen  elsewhere  than  among  the  pines ; nor  that  any  mythology  grow- 
ing up  among  people  inhabiting  these  forests  could  have  omitted  such 
supernatural  beings  from  its  theogony. 

But  do  not  conclude  that  the  gloom  of  the  pine-woods  clouded  our 
spirits.  So  many  trees  had  fallen  where  our  tents  were  pitched  that 
the  sunshine  peered  down  there,  and  at  night  the  moon  looked  in  upon 
us,  rising  weirdly  over  a vista  of  dead  and  lonely  tree-tops.  Then,  too, 
the  brook  was  always  singing  in  our  ears  — absolutely  singing!  The 
sound  of  the  incessant  tumble  of  the  water  and  boiling  of  the  eddies 
made  a heavy  undertone,  like  the  surf  of  the  sea ; but  the  breaking  of 
the  current  over  the  higher  rocks  and  the  leaping  of  the  foam  down 
the  cataracts  produced  a distinctly  musical  sound — :a  mystical  ringing 
of  sweet-toned  bells.  There  is  no  mistaking  this  metallic  melody,  this 
clashing  of  tiny  cymbals,  and  it  must  be  this  miniature  blithe  harmo- 
ny that  fine  ears  have  heard  on  the  beach  in  summer  where  the  surf 
breaks  gently. 

But  these  are  drowsy  fancies,  and  one  night  of  such  sleepless  dream- 
ing is  about  all  a healthy  man  can  afford  out  of  a whole  trip  ; and  if  he 
is  not  a healthy  man  he  ought  not  to  go  into  the  Wind  River  moun- 
tains at  all. 


162 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XXL 

Our  next  objective  point  was  Fremont’s  Peak,  about  fifteen  miles 
northward  in  an  air-line.  As  we  were  not  provided  with  balloons,  how- 
ever, we  had  to  take  a circuitous  route  on  terra  firma  along  the  base  of 
the  range,  and  found  it  a three  days’  journey.  It  would  be  idle  to  de- 
tail all  the  particulars  of  those  marches.  The  snow  and  sleet  in  which 
we  started  gave  place  to  rain  as  we  got  lower  down,  and  by  the  time 
the  groves  of  quaking-asp  that  fill  all  the  slopes  between  the  outer  foot- 
hills were  left  behind  this  also  ceased,  leaving  us  only  a cold  wind  to 
contend  with.  Our  way  led  us  northward  over  sage-brush  plains,  part 
of  the  time  following  a wagon-road  almost  as  old  as  the  emigrant  trail, 
and  called  “ Lander’s  cut-off but  it  is  said  that,  like  most  of  the  at- 
tempted short-cuts  along  the  overland  route,  it  saves  nothing  “ in  the 
long  run.”  It  was  a very  dim  road,  but  the  marks  of  wagon -wheels 
last  a long  time  in  this  region  ; and,  besides,  occasional  hunters  and 
prospectors  take  their  teams  over  it,  thus  keeping  it  visible.  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you,  reader,  how  these  roads  are  made?  Certainly  they 
are  not  laid  out  by  engineers.  They  all  follow  old  Indian  trails,  and 
the  Indians  simply  straightened  out  the  paths  made  by  the  game  in 
their  seasonal  movements  from  one  district  to  another.  Fremont  gets 
the  credit  of  the  ‘‘  discovery  ” of  the  South  Pass,  and  that  old  trapper 
and  hero,  Jim  Bridger,  has  a pass  named  after  him  down  by  the  rail- 
road ; but,  in  truth,  the  buffaloes  guided  both  of  them  there  and  were 
the  real  finders. 

The  next  day  we  left  the  road,  it  turning  too  far  eastward  to  suit 
us  on  its  way  across  the  settlements  in  the  lower  part  of  Idaho  and  on 
to  Salt  Lake  City,  but  were  helped  in  travelling  by  striking  a poor  trail, 
which  saved  us  some  dodging  about  among  the  sage. 

A trail  is  not  a road  ; it  is  not  even  a path  sometimes.  As  the 
word  indicates,  it  is  the  mark  left  on  the  ground  by  something  dragged, 
as  lodge-poles,  which  the  Indians  fasten  to  the  saddles  of  the  horses 
their  squaws  ride  when  travelling,  allowing  the  ends  to  drag  on  the 


FOLLOWING  THE  TRAIL. 


163 


ground.  Having  picked  out  a road  once,  they  will  naturally  follow  the 
scratching  or  trails  of  the  poles  the  next  time  they  go  that  way,  to 
avoid  the  trouble  of  exploring  a new  road,  and  so  a route  will  become 
fixed.  In  an  open  country  like  this,  where  one  can  see  for  a hun- 
dred miles,  and  steer  by  sky-cutting  peaks,  there  is  little  need  of  trails, 
and  thus  few  exist.  But  in  such  a mountainous  region  as  Colorado 
the  best  ways  about  the  rugged  backs  of  the  ridges  have  been  learned 
from  the  elks  and  marked  by  Indian  trails  from  time  immemorial,  and 
the  Survey  has  found  it  exceedingly  convenient  to  follow  them.  Some 
are  very  plain,  but  the  best  marked  of  any  are  those  which  wind  up 
and  down  the  declivities  of  those  Alpine  peaks  in  the  San  Juan  region 
of  Colorado,  and  south  of  it  across  that  plateau  called  the  Mesa  Verde. 
There  water  is  so  scarce,  and  the  country  is  so  cut  up  by  canons  utterly 
impassable,  that  it  is  unsafe  to  leave  the  trail ; and  some  of  these  paths, 
by  thousands  of  years  of  constant  use,  have  been  worn  deep  into  the 
rock.  But  this  plainness  of  trail  is  rare.  Ordinarily  it  is  a mere  direc- 
tion, an  assurance  to  the  mind  that  you  are  going  somewhere,  if  only 
over  into  the  next  valley.  Yet  it  is  fascinating  to  follow  the  slender, 
wavering  line  winding  between  the  rocks  or  among  the  trees ; and  if 
you  set  spurs  to  your  fancy  you  may  ride  round  the  world  on  a moun- 
tain trail. 

Anent  this  matter,  the  reader  will,  perhaps,  pardon  a digression 
which  carries  him  southward  into  the  dry  table-lands  on  the  border  of 
New  Mexico. 

If  any  one  proposes  to  himself  a*tour  of  observation  of  the  very  worst 
portions  of  these  United  States,  let  him  not  neglect  the  Mesa  Verde. 
It  lies  in  the  extreme  south-western  corn’er  of  Colorado,  among  the  few 
streams  that  struggle  down  from  the  splendid  Sierra  de  la  Plata  to  feed 
the  Rio  San  Juan.  As  the  traveller  marches  down  one  of  these  sunken 
water-courses  he  sees  that  the  Indian  trail  takes  that  particular  route 
because  it  is  impracticable  for  it  to  go  elsewhere ; and  he  finds  himself 
descending  an  incline  into  the  earth,  as  it  were,  the  walls  of  a seemingly 
interminable  canon  rising  higher  and  higher  on  each  side  of  him  as  he 
advances.  Nor  is  this  impression  very  wide  of  the  truth;  only  after  a 
time  one  finds  that  he  has  reached  the  end  of  his  incline,  and  for  fifty 
miles  or  more  rides  in  the  bottom  of  a remarkable  gorge. 

The  Mesa  Verde — which  is  Spanish  for  “green  table,”  and  a name, 
no  doubt,  given  by  some  one  who  saw  it  in  early  spring,  for  at  no  other 
time  does  it  appear  verdant — is  a somewhat  irregular  table-land,  com- 
prising an  area  of  about  seven  hundred  square  miles,  and  formed  of 


164 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


an  extensive  series  of  nearly  horizontal  sedimentary  (cretaceous)  rocks, 
of  which  the  surrounding  country  has  been  denuded.  These  beds  are 
sandstones  and  shales  of  varying  degrees  of  hardness,  generally  with 
the  softer  shales  underneath.  When  the  erosive  agent  — a mountain 
stream,  for  example — reaches  these  underlying  soft  beds,  they  are  car- 
ried away  far  faster  than  the  firmer  rocks  above,  which  are  thus  under- 
mined and  fall  in  large  fragments,  leaving  vertical  exposures.  The 
canons  have  in  this  way  worn  to  a great  depth,  and  are  all  of  the  same 
sort — V-shaped  at  the  bottom,  where  the  slopes  of  crumbling  debris 
have  formed  steep  taluses,  crowned  by  perpendicular  cliffs,  sometimes 
many  hundreds  of  feet  in  height.  Such  canons — dry,  except  at  the 
time  of  the  spring  freshets,  when  vast  volumes  of  water  tear  their  way 
through  the  yielding  soil  — intersect  the  Mesa  in  all  directions;  and, 
as  almost  invariably  it  is  out  of  the  question  to  get  down  into  or  up 
out  of  the  gorges  with  a horse,  and  nearly  as  impossible  for  a man  on 
foot,  while  there  is  the  utmost  scarcity  of  water,  it  becomes  of  the 
greatest  importance  to  adhere  carefully  to  the  Indian  trails,  some  of 
which  have  been  travelled  for  thousands  of  years,  and  are  worn  deep 
into  the  sandstone.  The  southern  boundary  of  the  Mesa  is  defined 
quite  as  sharply  as  the  borders  of  the  canons  by  a sinuous  scarp  of 
vertical  white  cliffs,  whose  bases  are  buried  in  steep  slopes  of  fallen 
fragments,  overgrown  with  scattered  gray  shrubbery.  And  south  and 
west  of  it  stretch  repulsive  plains  of  dry  and  thirsty  .sand,  whose  dreary 
waste  is  diversified  only  by  jagged  buttes  and  the  splintered  remains 
of  volcanic  dikes.  Through  it  all  ramifies  an  endless  labyrinth  of  can- 
ons and  arroyas,  with  scarcely  a living  stream. 

However  interesting  or  uninteresting  this  geographical  description 
may  have  proved,  it  is  important  as  preface  to  the  adventure  I am  about 
to  relate,  in  order  that  you  may  appreciate  the  peculiar  discomfort  of 
the  situation.  We  had  been  travelling  for  over  a fortnight  across  this 
desert,  and  were  then  returning  by  a new  route.  We  had  circled  about 
rapidly,  and  one  day  our  guide  drew  on  a leaf  of  my  note-book  a rude 
little  map  in  explanation  of  our  devious  track.  On  the  morning  of  one 
of  our  last  day’s  marches,  before  reaching  the  coveted  mountains  and 
green  woods,  I decided  to  stop  behind  to  examine  some  ruined  pueblos 
of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  the  region — in  whose  history  I was  much 
interested,  and  which  lay  somewhat  off  our  trail,  adjoining  a fountain 
called  Aztec  Springs  — expecting  to  overtake  the  party  before  they 
encamped  some  twenty-five  miles  eastward.  I was  told  that  another 
trail  crossed  the  one  I was  to  return  to,  not  far  from  where  I should 


LOSING  THE  TRAIL, 


1G5 


strike  it,  upon  which  I was  to  turn  off ; and  I understood  that  this  was 
much  the  plainer  trail  of  the  two  at  their  forking. 

It  was  perhaps  eight  o’clock  when  I started  back  from  the  ruins,  find- 
ing the  old  trail  without  difficulty,  and  looking  for  the  branch  road.  A 
ride  of  two  or  three  miles  brought  me  to  a stagnant  pool  in  a rocky 


A CANON  IN  THE  MESA  VERDE. 


basin,  where  both  my  horse  and  myself  were  very  glad  of  a drink,  and 
where  I filled  my  pint  flask  with  the  warm,  muddy  water.  This  done, 
we  went  on  at  a jog-trot.  The  trail  seemed  to  bear  rather  too  far  to 
the  north,  and  I kept  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  expecting  every 
moment  to  see  a path  diverge  to  the  eastward  ; but  none  appeared,  and 
after  a while  I got  down  and  examined  the  trail.  It  was  evident  that  a 


166 


KNOCKING  'ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


large  number  of  animals  had  been  over  it  recently,  though  the  ground 
was  too  hard  to  give  much  information  about  them.  But  I made  up 
my  mind  that  the  tracks  must  be  those  of  our  train,  and  went  on  across 
the  table -land  — for  the  top  of  the  plateau  had  now  been  reached  — 
where  the  coarse  grass  and  herbage  were  scorched  and  withered  under 
the  fervid  summer  sun,  and  the  harsh  foliage  of  the  scrubby  junipers 
and  pinon  pines  had  become  almost  copper-colored  through  drought 
and  dust.  Enduring  the  heat  as  well  as  I was  able,  and  observing  every 
little  incident,  in  order  to  derive  therefrom  any  comfort  or  encourage- 
ment possible,  T jogged  on  alone  across  the  arid  plateau,  somewhat  un- 
easy at  the  steady  northward  trend  of  the  trail,  but  scarcely  suspecting 
that  the  footprints  I was  following  so  confidently  were  those  of  Indian 
ponies,  and  that  long  before  I came  to  the  pool  in  the  rocks  (now  left 
miles  behind)  the  path  of  my  companions  had  branched  off,  making  lit- 
tle show  in  the  shifting  sand  of  the  yellow  plain.  About  noon  I halted 
in  a grove  of  thick  cedars,  and  ate  a small  luncheon,  saved  from  my 
“ break-o’-day  ” breakfast,  while  my  horse  nibbled  for  an  hour. 

I had  travelled  on  again  only  a short  distance  when  the  trail  sudden- 
ly brought  me  out  of  a chapparal  jungle  upon  the  edge  of  an  exceeding- 
ly steep  and  long  hill-side,  densely  grown  with  currant  and  berry  bushes, 
dwarf  oaks,  and  various  shrubs.  At  the  foot  spread  a beautiful  valley, 
where  the  tall  fresh  grass  waved  in  the  cooling  breeze,  and  a sparkling 
river  wound  its  way  with  swift  and  noisy  current.  Beyond  the  river 
stretched  a landscape  of  hill  and  dale,  deliciously  green  to  my  strained 
eyes,  and  dotted  with  groves  of  patriarchal  spruces,  outcropping  crags 
of  inky  basalt,  and  pretty  thickets  where  birds  congregated.  It  was  an 
attractive  contrast  to  the  lava-blasted  deserts  behind  ; yet  I was  not 
wholly  glad  to  see  it,  for  the  pleasant  vale,  with  the  strange  blue  moun- 
tains, snow-peaked,  beyond,  admonished  me  that  I was  astray.  From 
this  lofty  point  I commanded  a wide  view,  and  paused  to  study  the  to- 
pography and  fix  upon  my  memory  the  shape  of  the  prominent  summits. 
One  point  only  I thought  I recognized  as  being  in  the  direction  where  I 
supposed  my  comrades  to  be.  It  was  my  single  landmark : and  fixing 
the  bearings  well  in  my  mind,  I descended  the  zigzag  path  to  the  river, 
where  horse  and  rider  hastened  to  plunge  their  lips  into  the  grateful 
flood.  Then  picketing  my  tired  animal  in  the  midst  of  sweet  grass, 
and  stretching  myself  in  the  shade,  I applied  myself  to  severe  practice 
in  the  art  of  making  correct  deductions  from  doubtful  premises. 

It  was  certain  that  I had  wandered  out  of  my  way,  and  probably  had 
travelled  twenty-five  miles  that  morning.  This  was  one  side  of  a trian- 


LOST  AMONG  HOSTILE  INDIANS. 


167 


gle ; the  right  trail  was  another  side ; the  length  and  direction  of  the 
third  side  thus  became  the  problem.  This  warm  and  fertile  river-bot- 
tom, where  fuel  was  abundant,  pure  snow-water  inexhaustible,  and  game 
and  fish  in  plenty,  seemed  to  be  a central  point  for  Indians.  The  re- 
mains of  many  of  their  bivouacs  were  scattered  here  and  there  among 
the  tall  cottonwoods,  and  one  of  their  long,  straight  race-courses  was 
plainly  marked  on  a level  flat,  where  the  grass  was  not  allowed  a chance 
to  grow.  Four  -trails  diverged  nearly  to  the  cardinal  points,  and  the 
question  was,  which  one  of  them  to  take.  Of  course,  I might  go  back 
to  Aztec  Springs,  my  starting-point  of  the  morning,  and  make  a more 
careful  scrutiny  for  the  right  trail,  but  I disliked  doing  this  until  driven 
by  grim  necessity. 

Before  my  half-hour’s  rest  was  over  I had  determined  to  take  the 
trail  that  crossed  the  river  and  led  toward  the  mountains,  and  I did  so. 
It  was  a beautiful  district — picturesque,  home-like,  and  sunny.  I spurred 
into  a short,  fierce  gallop,  swung  my  hat,  and  shouted  with  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  scene.  Then  misgivings  seized  me.  From  a little  eminence 
I had  caught  sight  of  rocks  ahead  that  made  me  fear  that  the  lovely 
park  would  soon  come  to  an  end,  and  I should  find  myself  toiling  among 
the  jagged  fragments  of  one  of  those  old  volcanic  eruptions  so  frequent- 
ly met  with  throughout  this  region.  I therefore  turned  my  horse’s  head 
slowly  round,  conscious,  by  a sort  of  intuition,  that  I was  again  wrong, 
and  that  danger  lay  in  that  direction.  Afterward  I learned  that  that 
path  would  have  taken  me  to  the  Rio  Dolores — River  of  Sadness ! 

It  was  not  a particularly  pleasant  predicament  to  be  in.  I had  no 
food,  or  gun  to  shoot  it  with.  My  only  protection  in  a country  full  of 
grizzlies,  mountain  lions,  and  wolves  was  the  revolver  and  knife  in  my 
belt.  Moreover,  I knew  that  if  ever  I left  that  river  there  was  small 
chance  of  finding  a drop  of  water  nearer  than  the  mountains  scores  and 
scores  of  miles  away,  with  a horse  already  jaded  to  carry  me.  I al- 
most decided  to  toss  up  a cent  between  going  clear  back  where  I 
started  from — which  argued  thirty-six  hours  more  of  hard  and,  at  best, 
doubtful  work,  with  no  better  food  than  pinon-nuts — and  the  other  al- 
ternative of  following  hard  after  the  band  of  Indians  whose  tracks  had 
beguiled  me  ; for  now  I readily  perceived,  by  the  almost  warm  ashes 
of  the  fires  scattered  all  about,  and  by  a dozen  other  signs,  that  it  was 
a wandering  company  of  Southern  Utes  that  I had  been  unconsciously 
pursuing  with  such  eagerness.  I could  travel  faster  than  they  would 
be  likely  to ; yet  overtaking  them  was  not  an  agreeable  prospect,  leav- 
ing out  of  view  any  distasteful  features  of  association  with  Indians, 


168 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


since  they  were  then  on  the  verge  of  open  hostility ; and,  if  they  did 
not  choose  to  take  my  life,  I was  tolerably  certain  they  would  assume 
proprietary  rights  over  my  horse  and  personal  effects,  none  of  which  I 
had  yet  grown  tired  of  possessing. 

Thus,  with  more  seriousness  than  before,  I stood  halting  between 
the  horns  of  this  evil  dilemma,  when  I bethought  me  of  the  rough 
little  map  in  my  note-book — I have  it  yet.  It  required  much  ingenuity 
and  hard  thinking  to  get  at  my  probable  position  and  the  assumed  po- 
sition of  the  train,  for  neither  of  those  points  nor  any  trails  were  indi- 
cated ; but  the  meagre  sketch  hinted  at  the  existence  of  a stream  some- 
where in  the  vicinity  of  the  one  I was  then  resting  beside,  and  con- 
vinced me,  with  the  aid  of  what  woodcraft  I could  bring  to  bear  on 
the  subject,  that  my  true  plan  of  escape  was  to  follow  the  trail  that 
led  up  the  river. 

Before  I started  I wrote  a brief  epistle  on  a leaf  of  my  note-book, 
setting  forth  who  the  writer  was,  his  business  and  destination,  his  pres- 
ent situation,  and  the  course  he  was  about  to  take,  with  a word  of 
remembrance  to  friends  at  home  on  the  far-away  shore  of  New  Eng- 
land. This  inscription  was  pinned  up  against  the  bark  of  a prominent 
cottonwood,  where  it  would  be  most  likely  to  be  seen,  should  any  of 
my  party  come  in  search  of  me  after  a few  days.  I wonder  what  wan- 
dering trapper  or  prospector  has  found  that  letter,  and  what  he  thought ; 
or  whether  Indians  tore  it  down  in  wanton  destructivenes,  as  is  their 
wont ; or  whether  it  was  snatched  from  its  fastening  by  some  breeze 
and  wafted  into  the  river ! At  any  rate,  I never  heard  from  it.  Then 
I pulled  up  a hole  or  two  in  my  belt,  as  a compromise  with  an  empty 
stomach,  tightened  my  steed’s  girths,  and  swung  myself  into  the  saddle. 

It  was  fully  three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  now ; and,  feeling  the 
need  of  urgent  haste,  I kept  my  horse  upon  the  lope  wherever  the 
ground  permitted,  and  before  long  found  myself  leaving  behind  the 
clear  current  of  the  stream,  the  green  shrubs,  soft  sward,  and  willow 
thickets,  and  slowly  mounting  again  to  the  table-land,  where  the  medic- 
inal scent  of  the  sage-brush  came  to  my  nostrils  instead  of  the  sweet- 
ness of  flowers,  and  the  prickly  leaves  of  cedar  and  pinon  scratched  my 
face  as  I dashed  by.  I realized  that  the  delightful  valley  was  a sort 
of  oasis,  supported  by  the  constant  river,  and  it  was  no  marvel  that  it 
was  a favorite  resort  of  the  nomadic  aborigines. 

Now  came  into  view  again  some  of  the  heights  sighted  before;  and 
I felt  so  strongly  that  they  were  trustworthy  guides,  that  I resolved  to 
steer  by  them,  abandoning  the  trail,  should  it  materially  diverge  from 


A NIGHT  IN  THE  BURNED  WOODS. 


169 


its  present  eastward  direction.  This  would  be  really  a serious  thing  to 
do.  Even  if  I had  felt  perfectly  safe  in  undertaking  to  travel  across 
this  wretched  country — sure  that  impassable  chasms  would  not  yawn 
unexpectedly  at  my  feet,  forbidding  farther  progress — I still  should  for- 
sake much  comfort  in  abandoning  the  path  ; for,  as  I said  before,  even 
though  it  be  scarcely  more  than  a suggestion,  a trail  is  a happy  promise 
to  the  anxious  heart  that  you  are  soincivJicrc^  and  are  not  aimlessly 

wandering  in  a circle.  Therefore  I devoutly  hoped  my  present  slender 
and  wavering  guide  would  not  fail  to  lead  toward  the  desired  point. 

The  farther  I advanced  the  worse  the  road  became.  Instead  of  a 
level  plain  ahead,  overgrown  with  a continuous  low  thicket  of  sage- 
brush and  grease -wood,  there  now  appeared  a range  of  rough  hills, 
whose  declivities  bristled  with  little,  dead,  scrubby  trees,  blackened  and 
maimed  by  a fire  which  recently  had  swept  through  and  killed  them. 
The  sun  was  setting  by  this  time,  and  the  first  of  these  hills  was  not 
surmounted  before  the  gloom  had  become  so  thick  as  to  render  invisi- 
ble the  trail  already  much  obliterated  by  the  conflagration. 

Fearful  of  losing  it  irretrievably,  I saw  that  I must  stop  and  save 
the  remaining  moments  of  twilight  for  gathering  fuel. 

A large  stock  of  wood  was  collected  with  no  little  pains,  and  when 
it  became  too  dark  to  collect  more  I built  my  fire,  using  as  kindling 
some  bits  of  cloth,  corn-husks,  and  so  forth,  from  the  old  Indian  camp 
at  the  river,  and  lighting  the  mass  with  a shot  from  my  revolver.  Then 
I spread  my  thick  Navajo  saddle-blanket  in  the  light  of  the  fire ; and, 
throwing  my  'army  coat  across  my  shoulders,  lounged  down,  with  the 
saddle  for  a pillow.  I wasn’t  sleepy,  so  rested,  watching  acorns  roast- 
ing upon  the  coals  ; but  they  proved  not  good.  Buckskin,  poor  fellow ! 
hadn’t  a blade  of  grass  to  solace  himself,  and  soon  tired  of  browsing 
oak-brush. 

The  darkness  became  intense — a solid  wall  around  my  fire  — and 
occasional  gusts  of  wind  rattled  the  dry  branches.  Once  a far-away 
coyote  sent  to  my  ears  very  faintly  his  “ yip-yip-yuea-h  and  a moment 
afterward  an  owl  called  musically  from  the  next  ridge.  I do  not  remem- 
ber that  I occupied  myself  with  any  particular  thoughts.  This  thing 
and  that  flitted  through  my  brain  in  an  inconsequential  manner,  for 
my  head  was  resting  as  well  as  my  body,  and  I was  too  old  a camper 
to  feel  any  special  dread  of  the  loneliness,  or  the  objectless  fear  that 
sometimes  troubles  inexperienced  persons. 

I was  a little  hungry,  but,  all  things  considered,  might  have  found  it 
hard  to  complain,  had  I not  been  tormented  by  thirst. 

12 


iro 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


The  soil  in  these  burnt  woods  had  been  reduced  to  ashes,  and  rose 
in  a cloud  at  every  step.  The  breathing  of  this  was  bad  enough  after 
my  long  abstinence  and  fatigue  ; but  add  to  it  the  swallowing  of  much 
hot  smoke  in  kindling  my  fire,  and  you  have  cause  for  misery  almost 
unendurable. 

I had  the  pint  of  water  in  my  saddle-bags,  but  more  than  one  sweet 
swallow  dared  not  take  ; for  when  I should  find  another  flaskful  was 
something  I hesitated  to  think  about.  I chewed  some  bitter  oak  leaves 
as  an  effort  at  relief,  whittled  a bullet  out  of  a pistol-cartridge  to  roll 
about  in  my  mouth,  and  pretty  soon  fell  asleep. 

Suddenly  there  seemed  to  penetrate  my  slumbers  a shrill,  wavering 
echo,  as  of  a long-drawn,  distressful  cry.  It  brought  me  to  my  feet, 
wide-awake  in  an  instant,  for  I knew  very  well  what  it  was — the  scream 
of  the  puma ! But  a more  present  danger  threatened — the  tree,  against 
which  was  built  the  fire,  had  burnt  nearly  through  and  was  toppling, 
ready  to  fall  upon  me.  The  mountain  lion  at  once  became,  to  my 
mind,  a guardian  angel  sent  with  warning  of  my  peril ; and  it  was  none 
too  soon,  for  I had  only  time  to  snatch  my  saddle  away,  when  the  tree 
came  down  with  a tremendous  crash  and  burst  of  sparks  directly  upon 
the  spot  where  I had  been  soundly  sleeping  an  instant  before.  Yet, 
now  that  no  harm  was  done,  I found  a blessing  even  in  the  fall  of  the 
tree,  for  here  was  plenty  of  wood  at  hand.  Raking  up  the  fire,  I listened 
for  a repetition  of  the  puma’s  mournful  voice ; but  it  did  not  come,  and 
finally  I got  drowsy  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

The  next  thing  that  interrupted  my  slumber  was  the  plunging  of 
Buckskin.  Sitting  up  quickly,  I heard  a scurrying  in  the  bushes,  and 
caught  sight  of  two  green  eyes.  That  meant  wolves ; not  sneaking 
little  coyotes,  no  worse  than  Indian  dogs,  but  the  great  gray  fellows 
you  read  about — wolves  as  big  as  a mastiff,  hunting  in  packs,  and  as 
fierce  as  the  utmost  development  of  a savage  lupine  nature  can  make 
them.  To  secure  my  terrified  horse  was  my  first  concern.  I ran  with 
all  haste  across  the  little  space  that  intervened,  but  had  not  reached 
him  when  a wolf  leaped  out,  and  the  horse  gave  a great  jump,  which  I 
thought  must  surely  break  his  lariat.  But  fortunately  the  rope  held, 
and,  snatching  my  revolver  from  my  belt,  I broke  the  brute’s  leg  and 
sent  him  off  to  the  somewhat  abashed  pack  limping  and  howling. 
Quieting  my  horse  as  well  as  I could,  I brought  him  close  to  the  fire 
and  tied  him  firmly,  whereupon  he  approached  as  near  to  me  as  his 
tether  would  allow.  He  was  badly  frightened  and  very  lonesome.  It 
occurred  to  me  to  put  the  saddle  on  his  back,  but  I concluded  it  was 


ATTACKED  BY  GRAY  WOLVES. 


171 


hardly  worth  while,  fancying  that  the  greatest  danger  had  been  avert- 
ed in  escaping  the  loss  of  my  horse,  which  would  have  been  an  irrep- 
arable disaster,  and  that  so  long  as  the  blaze  could  be  kept  up  I might 
feel  at  ease ; however,  I did  choose  a convenient  tree  as  a house  of 
refuge  if  worst  came  to  worst.  Then  I heaped  high  upon  my  watch- 
fire  the  crackling  and  redolent  limbs  of  cedar,  lighting  up  the  dead  for- 
est until  all  the  scarred  old  trees  held  out  their  gaunt,  dismantled  arms 
and  bony  hands  to  warm  them  at  the  blaze.  How  the  wolves  gave 
tongue  at  that ! I could  see  them  moving  spectrally  here  and  there 
as  the  arrows  of  light  shot  far  into  the  circle  of  darkness,  and  judged 
there  might  be  ten  or  a dozen  ; but  their  lugubrious,  reverberating, 
angry  howls  multiplied  themselves  until  it  seemed  as  though  a regiment 
of  wolfish  fiends  had  corralled  me  and  were  yelling  their  triumph.  It 
banished  sleep,  and  I sat  there  wondering  whether  they  would  dare 
charge  while  the  red  cedar  kept  consuming  with  such  fragrance  and 
lively  scintillation,  thanking  my  stars  that  I had  had  sense  enough  to 
collect  a good  supply  of  fuel,  and  finally  the  wolves  went  off  in  full 
cry  and  all  together.  Then,  wrapped  in  my  Navajo,  for  the  third  time 
I sought  ‘Hired  nature’s  sweet  restorer.” 

In  an  instant  I was  in  San  Francisco  with  a party  of  jovial  friends, 
each  free-handed.  We  entered  a restaurant  where  fountains  were  leap- 
ing among  the  emerald  fronds  of  tropical  plants,  the  rainbows  in  their 
spray  reflected  from  services  of  costly  silver  and  rare  porcelain.  We 
seated  ourselves  at  a sumptuous  table,  and  one  called  out  gayly,  “Well, 
gentlemen,  what  will  you  choose  as  appetizers  before  our  feast  ?”  Some 
said  hock,  others  champagne;  a dark-faced  man,  aguardiente;  a lucky 
miner,  cognac.  I answered,  “ Oh  ! please,  please  give  me  a cup  of  wa- 
ter !”  Aroused  by  my  own  piteous  cry,  I opened  my  eyes  upon  the 
faint  new  light  of  a dawning  day. 

Little  remains  to  tell.  By  the  time  the  saddle  was  fastened  on  my 
horse — who  looked  as  though  he  had  made  a worse  night  of  it  than  I 
had — it  was  light  enough  to  hunt  for  the  trail ; but  the  search  proved 
utterly  fruitless,  and  I was  obliged  to  trust  to  my  previous  calculations 
and  strike  straight  across  the  country,  steering  eastward,  not  by  a star, 
but  the  nearest  thing  to  it — a snow-crested  mountain-top,  where  rested 
now  the  golden  slipper  of  “jocund  day.”  Mile  after  mile  did  we  climb 
those  rugged  hills  blasted  by  the  breath  of  fire,  and  cross  those  deceit- 
ful valleys,  where  a dozen  times  I dug  deep  holes  for  water  in  the  sandy 
“wash”  at  the  bottom  ; for  though  I still  had  resolution  enough  to  save 
the  supply  in  my  flask,  my  throat  was  parched  till  I could  scarcely  speak 


172 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


to  my  horse,  and  did  not  know  how  much  longer  I could  resist.  It  was 
always  hot  and  dusty  and  rough  ; but  after  a while  the  country  became 
more  open  and  grassy,  and  little  by  little  we  got  out  of  the  burnt  dis- 
trict and  could  go  faster.  A rolling,  tree-dotted  park  came  now,  and  I 
think  nothing  ever  discouraged  me  more  than  to  rise  to  the  crest  of 
each  of  those  rapidly  succeeding  waves  of  land  only  to  see  another 
ridge  ahead.  But  toward  noon  the  glad  surprise  of  the  last  one  was 
reached,  and  beyond  it  we  saw  the  glancing  wavelets  of  a clear,  cold 
brook.  “Did  we  run?”  Wouldn’t  you?  And  when  he  had  drunk  his 
fill  my  horse  held  up  his  head  and  uttered  a shrill  neigh.  I took  it  to 
be  his  way  of  giving  thanks,  until  speedily  there  came  back  an  answer 
— an  equine  welcome ; for  camp  and  home  were  not  a hundred  yards 
away. 

Curiously  enough,  the  pleasant  valley  I had  strayed  into  had  long 
ago  been  named  by  trappers  Lost  Canon. 


SHOOTING  MULE-DEER  ON  THE  SANDY. 


173 


XXII. 

Having  reached  the  southern  branch  of  the  Sandy  river,  one  of 
the  main  tributaries  of  the  Green,  and  which  consists  of  three  branches 
originating  in  the  Wind  River  mountains,  we  camped  opposite  some 
great  meadows,  through  which  the  river  wound  in  a tortuous  course 
nourishing  dense  thickets  of  willows.  The  river  was  deep,  cold,  and 
rapid,  but  not  more  than  fifty  feet  wide.  It  was  inhabited  by  beavers, 
and  we  saw  a few  trout.  The  bottoms  embraced  several  thousand  acres 
of  the  best  grass,  and  if  the  willows  were  burned  enormous  quantities 
of  good  hay  might  be  harvested.  The  adjacent  hills  furnished  fine 
timber,  and  it  cannot  be  long  before  cattle  ranches  will  be  scattered  all 
over  these  broad  valleys.  Indeed,  we  saw  one  herd  of  cattle  feeding, 
which  we  supposed  to  belong  to  some  ranchmen  living  down  near  the 
mouth  of  the  stream. 

The  mules  having  been  unpacked,  Harry  took  his  gun  and  saun- 
tered out  after  game,  for  we  were  eating  our  last  elk  steaks.  I suppose 
he  had  not  gone  a hundred  yards  before  we  heard  the  crack  of  his  rifle, 
and  then  his  voice  calling  for  help  to  bring  in  his  capture,  a fine  young 
doe  blacktail,  or  mule-deer  {Cervus  7nacrotis),  as  some  of  my  friends  will 
tell  me  is  the  proper  name,  reserving  “black-tail”  to  the  north-western 
variety — C.  columbianus.  The  evening  was  chilly,  and  we  made  a big 
fire  of  that  best  of  wood,  dead  quaking -asp,  around  which  we  sat  as 
darkness  gathered  close,  watching  the  deer-ribs  roast  to  the  right  turn, 
and  listening  to  Harry  Yount’s  tales  of  hunter-life  as  he  had  experi- 
enced it  in  this  very  region. 

From  May  to  September,  as  everybody  knows,  it  is  not  possible  to 
do  profitable  hunting,  or  “shooting,”  as  my  English  friends  would  in- 
sist was  the  right  word — but  I use  Harry’s  phrase  and  in  the  Ameri- 
can sense.  The  hair  is  being  shed  and  replaced  on  all  the  game,  so 
that  the  coats  of  the  valuable  fur-bearers  are  useless ; the  females  of 
the  deer  are  isolated,  caring  for  their  young,  and  the  males  are  hidden, 
renewing  their  horns;  while  the  flesh  of  all  animals  is  in  a lean  and 

12^ 


174 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


inferior  condition.  During  these  months,  therefore,  Yount  would  go 
“prospecting,”  work  in  the  silver -mines,  become  an  amateur  “bull- 
whacker”  on  some  freight -train  of  ox -teams,  or  enlist  as  hunter  and 
muleteer  for  one  or  the  other  of  the  parties  of  the  Survey.  But  as 
soon  as  the  September  frosts  begin,  when  the  first  flurries  of  snow 
whiten  for  a day  or  two  the  far-away  gleaming  summits,  then  Harry 
prepares  to  bid  good-bye  to  civilization. 

These  autumnal  weeks  are  the  most  beautiful  of  the  whole  year 
in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  air  is  clear  and  bracing,  without  the 
warmth  of  July  noondays  or  the  dampness  of  August  nights.  The 
flies  are  gone,  the  streams  are  fordable,  and  the  snow  has  disappeared, 
leaving  the  upland  bogs  firm.  Young  grouse  and  sage-hens  are  full- 
grown  and  whirring,  the  fawns  are  able  to  keep  pace  with  their  parents, 
and  the  fattening  deer  are  aggregating  into  herds  and  slowly  moving  to 
their  winter  resorts.  The  elk  and  blacktail  bucks  now  strut  out  upon 
some  projecting  crag,  or  move  into  the  centre  of  a valley,  calling  in 
loud,  clear  greeting  an  invitation  to  the  does  to  flock  to  their  standard, 
and  a challenge  to  rival  bucks  to  meet  in  deadly  tournament. 

“ Ah,”  says  Harry,  “ it’s  finer  music  to  listen  to  that  old  bull-elk 
squealing  up  at  the  head  of  the  canon  than  to  hear  the  Prussian  band!” 

It  is  better  music.  It  arouses  all  the  poetry  of  the  hunter’s  nature 
— and  he  possesses  not  a little.  Then  he  will  creep  up  within  range, 
perhaps  cleverly  imitating  the  sonorous  whistle  to  draw  the  foolishly 
proud  buck  on,  drop  on  one  knee,  and  fire,  planting  his  bullet  behind 
the  fore-shoulder.  Harry  always  carries  two  light  rods,  tied  together 
near  one  end,  in  the  fork  of  which  he  rests  his  heavy  rifle.  His  misses 
are  rare;  but  I think  that  his  general  success  in  shooting  is  due  less  to 
his  accurate  marksmanship  than  to  his  perfect  knowledge  of  the  ways 
of  the  game.  He  is  a student  of  the  science  of  hunting.  He  has 
learned,  for  instance,  how  to  impose  upon  the  confidence  of  the  timid 
pronghorn,  by  exciting  its  curiosity ; knows  that  the  white-tailed  deer 
must  be  sought  in  their  runways  low  down  among  the  watercourses 
(whence  they  are  sometimes  called  “ willow- deer  ”),  and  the  blacktail 
higher  up  among  the  aspen-groves;  watches  the  “black  brush”  to  see 
whether  deer  have  been  browsing  upon  it  lately ; tells  you  that  wapiti 
have  been  there  that  morning,  because  he  sees  that  the  plaintain-leaves 
have  been  nibbled  ; judges  by  the  half-emptied  pine-cones  that  grouse 
have  been  picking  at  them,  and  therefore  may  be  looked  for.  These 
evidences  of  the  presence  of  animals  are  classed  as  “signs”  and  “doin’s,” 
and  it  is  a hunter’s  business  to  know  how  to  interpret  them  properly. 


THE  MULE-DEER. 


HARRY’S  HUNTING  ADVENTURES. 


177^ 


In  the  early  autumn  Yount  will  shoot  a wagon-load  of  game  at  a 
time,  camping  for  a few  days  not  far  from  market,  and  bringing  his  ven- 
ison into  Laramie,  Cheyenne,  or  Sydney,  for  sale ; but  when  winter  seri- 
ously threatens,  Harry  puts  into  his  wagon  a small  tent,  some  buffalo- 
robes  and  blankets,  a bake-oven,  frying-pan,  coffee-mill  and  kettle,  some 
copper  pails,  plates,  etc. ; his  score  or  so  of  steel  traps,  axe,  some  boards 
to  do  his  skinning  on,  half  a box  of  candles,  plenty  of  fixed  ammunition 
for  his  breech-loading  rifles,  and,  with  Texas  led  behind,  starts  off  to  the 
mountains  alone  for  six  months  of  winter  residence. 

His  provisions  consist  of  flour  and  coffee  (browned  and  ground  by 
himself),  a little  bacon,  some  beans  and  hominy,  sugar,  salt,  pepper,  and 
a few  pounds  of  dried  fruit,  or  perhaps  some  cans  of  preserved  vegeta- 
bles and  sauce.  This  is  not  bad  fare,  and  is  luxury  beside  his  larder  of 
twenty  years  ago,  when  for  weeks  and  weeks  he  would  have  nothing 
but  meat  and  dried  berries  to  eat,  with  sage-tea,  camas-root  and  spruce- 
gum  for  variety.  He  takes  also  a little  whiskey  for  emergencies,  and  a 
vast  quantity  of  tobacco,  to  be  the  solace  of  his  solitary  hours. 

Thus,  all  alone  generally,  though  sometimes  a chum  joins  him,  Harry 
drives  off  to  the  chosen  spot  in  the  foot-hills,  where  he  counts  upon  the 
game  centring  during  the  winter,  or  where  there  seems  to  be  an  oppor- 
tunity for  profitably  setting  his  traps  ; and,  fixing  his  camp  in  some  shel- 
tered spot,  with  wood  plenty  and  water  accessible,  he  lives  a hermit’s 
life  through  the  “ long  and  dreary  winter.”  The  weather  allows  him  to 
tramp  about  most  of  the  time,  and  what  he  shoots  too  far  away,  or  too 
late  to  get  to  camp,  he  can  bury  in  the  snow,  sure  against  decay. 

Thrilling  tales  could  be  recited  of  the  adventures  of  these  mountain 
men,  who  are  abroad  at  this  season  almost  as  regularly  as  in  the  sum- 
mer. Some,  like  Harry,  are  hunting  in  the  foot-hill  valleys,  where  the 
game  hides  until  the  spring  grass  sprouts  : some  are  driving  freight-wag- 
ons between  frontier  towns  and  military  posts ; others  working  in  army 
pack-trains ; many  herding  on  elevated  plains,  where  the  snow  does  not 
lie  long  enough  on  the  grass  to  starve  the  cattle.  Most  of  them  are 
ignorant  of  how  to  take  proper  care  of  themselves,  and,  secure  in  the 
pride  of  their  toughness,  are  reckless  of  exposure.  It  happens  too  fre- 
quently, therefore,  that  they  are  crushed  in  snow-slides,  starved  by  be- 
ing weather-bound  far  from  help,  or  are  frozen  to  death.  Not  a year 
ago  a company  of  freighters  were  stopped  on  their  way  from  Fort  Lara- 
mie to  Cheyenne  by  a hurricane  of  snow.  They  wrapped  themselves  up 
as  well  as  they  could,  and  built  fires  in  the  wagons  unavailingly,  since 
the  bottoms  of  the  boxes  would  burn  through  before  the  men  could  get 


,178 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


warm.  When  the  storm  was  over  they  were  all  found  dead,  with  the 
horses  frozen  stiff  in  the  traces.  If  a prospector  conceives  an  idea  that 
at  a certain  locality  in  the  mountains  gold  will  be  found,  often  he  will 
become  so  eager  to  realize  his  dream  that  he  will  not  wait  for  spring  to 
clear  the  trails,  but  in  the  dead  of  winter  will  start  alone  into  the  heart 
of  the  range,  carrying  the  whole  furniture  of  his  camp,  his  tools,  and 
his  provisions,  on  a single  pack-mule.  Very  likely  he  is  never  heard  of 
again  ; and  when,  a year  or  two  afterward,  some  hunter  finds  a skeleton 
with  a skillet,  pick,  and  shovel  beside  it,  he  discovers  all  any  one  wdll 
ever  know  of  the  prospector’s  “ strike.”  Perhaps  he  became  snow-blind, 
and  starved  to  death  ; or  was  snowed-in  in  some  canon  until  his  scant 
supply  of  flour  and  bacon  was  exhausted.  It  maybe  Indians  murdered 
him  ; possibly  he  slipped  over  a cliff,  or  broke  through  some  treacher- 
ous snow-bridge  into  a crevasse — at  any  rate,  the  wolves  pick  his  bones, 
and  the  last  claim  staked  for  him  is  six  feet  long  by  two  feet  wide  ! 

Our  hero — a very  cautious  man — told  us  at  the  camp-fire  one  night 
how  narrowly  he  escaped  being  smothered  in  a snow-storm  in  April  a 
few  years  ago.  He  was  trapping  beavers  along  one  of  the  tributaries  of 
the  Platte,  flowing  through  bluffs  about  sixty  miles  east  of  Cheyenne. 
April  is  always  an  extremely  disagreeable  and  dangerous  month  on  the 
plains,  but  it  is  not  often  that  heavy  falls  of  snow  occur.  Yount  estab- 
lished his  camp  upon  the  edge  of  a small  stream  frequented  by  these 
animals,  and  placed  his  tent  a little  way  up  the  bank  in  a steep  gully, 
since  it  was  almost  the  only  spot  free  from  snow,  and  at  the  same  time 
out  of  reach  of  freshets.  He  had  provisions  for  some  days,  a shovel,  etc., 
and  plenty  of  bedding.  One  evening  it  began  to  snow  pretty  hard,  but 
he  went  to  sleep  without  any  special  apprehension.  In  the  morning  he 
found  a gale  blowing,  and  the  snow  falling  in  blinding  fury.  All  that 
day  it  continued,  through  that  night,  and  until  almost  noon  of  the  sec- 
ond day — forty  hours.  He  had  no  chance  to  cook  any  food,  and  so  ate 
nothing;  but  he  and  his  dog  lay  in  the  blankets,  and  kept  as  warm  as 
they  could.  The  prospect  of  being  entirely  drifted  under  and  smother- 
ed to  death  was  so  imminent  during  the  second  night  that  Harry  once 
wrapped  his  legs  in  blankets,  and  started  to  fight  his  way  out  with  a 
board  as  his  weapon,  but  decided  to  wait  a little  longer,  and  managed 
to  live  until  the  gale  ceased.  Then  he  cut  his  way  out  at  the  top  of  the 
tent,  climbed  over  to  the  bare  ground  above,  dug  his  kitchen  out  of  an- 
other drift,  and  lighted  a fire.  His  next  move  was  to  cut  loose  his  tent 
from  the  frozen  earth  and  take  it  to  the  high  ground,  preferring  the 
chances  of  an  Indian  attack  to  risking  another  burial. 


WINTER  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


179 


The  previous 
winter — 1874,  I think — 
was  an  extraordinarily 
cold  one.  Harry  was 
hunting  through  the  hills 
near  Fort  Laramie,  and 
had  fixed  his  camp  in  a 
canon  called  Goshen’s 
Hole.  Heavy  snow 
came,  with  intense  cold,  and  for  forty- 
five  days  the  hardy  hunter  was  weather- 
bound, but  this  time  he  was  in  the  timber 
and  otherwise  sheltered,  so  that  he  did 
not  seriously  suffer.  Near  his  camp  was 
a round,  flat-topped  butte,  where  the  wind 
blew  the  snow  off  the  grass  as  fast  as  it 
fell.  Here  there  was  always  an  abun-  a uuntek’s  blockade. 

dance  of  black-tailed  deer  and  other  game, 

rendered  tame  by  privation,  so  that  he  had  plenty  of  meat.  At  first 
Harry  shot  many  of  these,  burying  their  bodies  in  the  snow,  but  the 
wolves  speedily  found  his  caches,  melted  the  snow  by  some  means,  and 
dug  out  all  the  carcasses ; so  he  gave  it  up,  and  killed  only  enough 
deer  for  his  own  use.  Wolves  were  exceedingly  plenty,  and  had  hard 
work  to  live,  while  large  numbers  of  white  men  and  Indians  were 


180 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


frozen  to  death  during  that  “cold  spell,”  which  has  rarely  been  equal- 
led there. 

Our  next  day’s  march  was  a long  one,  and  the  wind  was  very  cold. 
We  were  passing  over  a rolling,  sage-brush  country  and  sandy  soil,  with 
bowlders  dispersed  throughout  it ; and  an  incessant  cloud  of  dust  was 
kicked  up  by  the  mules.  Three  or  four  times  we  descended  deep  val- 
leys and  crossed  considerable  streams  flowing  from  the  mountains  that 
were  not  at  all  easy  to  ford.  Their  sunken  course  was  defined  for  miles 
by  the  rows  of  tall  hemlocks  that  lined  their  banks,  and  whose  topmost 
twigs  were  about  level  with  the  surrounding  country. 

It  was  on  this  morning  that  we  met  a couple  of  trappers  going  into 
the  settlements  with  their  peltries.  They  carried  their  “plunder”  on 
four  or  five  ponies,  all  of  which  began  to  make  friends  with  our  mules, 
and  were  received  with  kicks  and  squeals  innumerable.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  hard  to  part  the  two  sets  of  animals  and  make  each  train  go  its 
own  way.  These  roughly  dressed,  bearded  men,  with  their  Indian 
ponies  loaded  down  with  uncouth  materials  lashed  on  in  uncivilized 
fashion,  made  a picture  very  much  in  keeping  with  the  wild  landscape 
and  ever  to  be  remembered.  They  had  been  camping  in  the  mountains 
all  winter,  and  were  now  going  in  to  sell  the  products  of  their  hunt, 
and  probably  to  spend  all  their  hard  earnings  in  a series  of  sprees.  We 
gave  them  letters  to  mail  at  Camp  Stambaugh,  offering  compensation 
for  the  trouble ; but  they  refused  to  accept  anything,  resenting  it  al- 
most as  an  indignity,  with  the  explanation  that  they  were  “ neither 
wealthy  nor  hard  up.” 

The  sage-brush  thinned  out  somewhat  as  we  approached  New  Fork, 
another  large  affluent  of  the  Green,  and  the  goodness  of  the  grass  and 
rapidity  of  its  growth  excited  the  attention  of  every  one.  It  was  al- 
ready curing  into  hay  as  it  stood,  though  half  buried  in  snow.  Flowers 
were  blooming  in  profusion  everywhere,  birds  were  singing  gayly  to  their 
mates  sitting  at  home  in  the  bushes,  and  yet  all  about  us  glistened  the 
glacial  fields  of  the  uplands,  and  the  wind  made  us  shiver  under  our 
overcoats,  as  though  it  were  January  instead  of  June. 

It  being  impracticable  to  carry  a pack  train  farther  into  the  moun- 
tains toward  Fremont’s  Peak  than  the  outlet  of  a large  stream,  tribu- 
tary to  the  New  Fork  of  the  Green  river,  the  camp  was  fixed  there  to 
wait  while  a small  and  unencumbered  party  made  the  ascent.  Fre- 
mont’s Peak  being  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Wind  River  range,  hav- 
ing often  been  sighted  from  every  side  except  the  north,  and  com- 


FREMONT’S  PEAK. 


181 


manding  a view  of  a wide  extent  of  country,  was  considered  one  of  the 
most  useful  geodetic  points  in  Wyoming,  and  it  was  therefore  especially 
desirable  to  get  good  observations  from  it.  Accordingly,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  July  2,  water  having  frozen  thickly  in  all  the  little  pools  the  night 
before,  Mr.  Wilson,  Harry  Yount,  and  the  writer  started  on  a side-trip 
to  the  summit,  taking  two  pack-mules — one  to  carry  the  theodolite  and 
other  instruments,  and  a second  for  the  bedding  and  ‘‘grub,”  which  lat- 
ter is  the  corner-stone  of  all  scientific  work  in  this  country.  We  par- 
ticularly observed  the  features  of  the  landscape  as  we  went  along,  for 
a peculiar  interest  attaches  to  this  mountain,  by  name  one  of  the  most 
widely  known  in  the  West,  and  yet  perhaps  at  that  time  the  most  ut- 
terly unknown  of  any.  Even  its  position  has  been  confused,  and  the 
latest  map  of  this  part  of  the  world  (that  accompanying  “ Captain 
Jones’s  Reconnoissance  of  North-western  Wyoming  ”),  made  in  1873, 
puts  Fremont’s  -name  upon  the  peak  several  miles  south  of  here,  which 
we  ascended  the  other  day,  and  which  the  people  near  here  have  called 
Wind  River  Peak;  or  possibly  Captain  Jones  meant  another  high  point 
still  farther  south — ascended  the  day  after  the  former,  and  named  At- 
lantic Peak,  from  the  fact  that  it  gives  all  its  waters  to  the  Atlantic 
ocean,  while  the  other  heights  of  the  range  contribute  to  the  Pacific, 
on  the  west,  as  well  as  to  the  Atlantic,  on  the  east.  This  latter  is  the 
southernmost  peak  of  the  range.  At  any  rate,  whichever  of  the  snowy 
tops  was  meant,  the  existing  maps  are  wrong  in  putting  the  name  “ Fre- 
m.ont  ” upon  any  other  mountain  than  this  one  in  the  centre  of  the 
range;  and  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how  the  mistake  could  have 
been  made,  had  the  map-m.akers  taken  the  trouble  to  read  General  Fre- 
mont’s own  description  of  his  explorations  here  thirty-five  years  ago, 
when,  in  1842,  he  conducted  a governmental  expedition  from  the  Mis- 
souri river  to  Oregon.  Fremont  says  he  marched  from  the  South  pass  to 
the  Sandy  river  and  camped,  and  thence  to  the  New  Fork,  and  camped, 
and  thence  two  days  up  the  New  Fork,  beyond  a lake,  when  he  camped 
as  near  to  the  mountain  as  he  could  get,  and  thence  climbed  it  on  foot, 
enduring  immense  hardships,  and  being  justly  proud  of  the  undertaking 
ever  since.  Somebody  has  told  me  (whether  his  book  says  so,  I am  not 
sure)  that,  either  by  accident  or  design,  the  brass  cover  of  his  telescope 
was  left  there,  and  remained  as  a monument  “ even  unto  this  day.”  It 
is  doubtful,  however,  whether,  if  really  he  did  leave  such  an  article 
there,  it  could  be  found  after  the  storms  and  thunder-bolts  of  thirty- 
five  wintry  years  had  striven  to  obliterate  it ; at  least  we  could  find 
nothing  of  the  kind. 


182 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


general 
of  gran- 


A TRIBUTARY  OF  THE  GREEN  RIVER. 


Getting  above 
the  thickets  of  the 
ravine  where  the 
camp  was,  Ave  fol- 
lowed— always  upward  and 
north-eastward  in 
direction — a ridge 
ite  bowlders  which  had 
been  shoved  out  and  heap- 
ed there  by  glaciers,  and 
was  covered  with  sage- 
brush. From  it  we  could 
look  southward  over  the 
wide  plain  of  the  Green 
River  basin,  and  westward 


across  to  the  blue  wall  of  the  Wahsatch,  capped  and  streaked  and  spot- 
ted with  snow.  Northward  the  crests  of  Mount  Leidy,  and  one  or  two 
more  of  the  higher  summits  of  the  Gros  Ventre  mountains,  were  just 
visible  above  the  wooded  foot-hills  which  in  other  directions  limited  the 


RIVERS,  LAKES,  AND  BEAVER-DAMS. 


183 


outlook.  Right  and  left  of  us,  wherever  we  could  look  down  into  a val- 
ley, there  in  the  bottom  would  be  a lake — sometimes  round,  like  a blue 
eye  ; sometimes  long  and  straight,  with  regular  edges  ; sometimes  wind- 
ing in  and  out  between  the  hills  like  a long,  still  river.  The  water  was 
deep,  and  reflected  the  light  in  different  and  varying  ultramarine ; or  if 
it  was  shaded,  receiving  only  reflected  light,  the  glassy  surface  seemed 
like  polished  iron,  and  suggested  some  Titan’s  shield — under  which  who 
knows  but  the  giant  may  be  buried  ? 

Once  our  course — for  we  followed  no  track — led  us  for  half  a mile 
along  the  sinuous  crest  of  a high  narrow  ridge  connecting  two  hill-tops 
as  by  a causeway,  where  we  could  at  once  look  out  upon  the  world  of 
plains  below  and  up  to  the  old  white  heads  so  far  above  us,  where  the 
clouds  were  playing  hide-and-seek  among  the  crags.  On  one  hand 
our  ridge-side  dipped  into  a deep  valley  filled  with  immense  quaking- 
asp  groves  and  thickets  of  birch  and  good  grass ; on  the  other,  to  a 
lake  fed  from  the  snow-banks  above,  through  half  a dozen  turbulent 
torrents,  as  we  could  see  by  gleams  of  white  foam  through  the  black 
spruces. 

This  lake  overflowed  into  that  next  below  it,  and  so  on  through  a 
narrow  stream  filled  with  beaver-dams ; and  the  dams  were  so  close  to- 
gether that  the  river  was  terraced,  as  it  were,  into  a series  of  circular 
ponds,  framed  in  vivid  green,  and  touching  one  another  like  a chain  of 
gems.  The  beaver  is  still  abundant  here,  and  trappers  are  beginning  to 
find  it  out ; and  now  that  the  Indians  are  no  longer  troublesome,  every 
one  of  these  lakes  will  soon  float  their  canoes  and  echo  to  the  crack  of 
their  rifles.  Beaver  will  not  be  their  only  game.  Most  of  the  other 
fur-bearing  animals  are  to  be  found  in  good  numbers,  and  there  is  any 
quantity  of  elks,  deer,  bears,  and  possibly  an  occasional  buffalo  and 
moose,  with  ducks  and  trout  for  the  kitchen. 

But  the  mules  had  been  jogging  on,  and,  catching  a last  glimpse  of 
an  inky  lake  past  an  eagle  whose  broad  back  is  scarcely  blacker  than 
the  water  as  he  sails  smoothly  below  us,  we  entered  the  forest.  At  first 
we  rode  at  a canter  between  the  trees  over  a firm  pavement  of  pine- 
needles  ; but  after  a mile  or  so,  all  the  time  ascending,  the  trunks  be- 
gan to  stand  closer  together,  and  blocks  of  granite  to  obstruct  the 
way,  with  boggy  hollows  between,  so  that  we  must  slowly  wind  about. 
This  increased  until  the  wet  spots  became  ponds,  with  mounds  of 
soft  snow  about  their  edges,  while  the  bowlders  grew  into  cliffs  to  be 
climbed,  and  the  defiles  between  them  were  choked  with  fallen  timber. 
After  that  there  was  no  fun.  We  jumped  trees  and  struggled  through 


18-1 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


bogs  and  floundered  in  snow,  and  scrambled  up  and  down  piles  of 
broken  rocks,  until  we  were  ready  to  give  up  again  and  again.  But, 
wriggling  on,  after  a while  we  came  to  what  seemed  almost  the  last 
gorge,  and,  getting  down  to  this  with  a great  deal  of  labor  through  the 
deep  rotten  snow  and  fallen  timber,  we  skirted  the  border  of  a lake, 
stepping  gingerly  on  the  half-frozen  ground,  and  found  a fine  camping- 
place  on  a little  bluff,  where  there  was  a decent  amount  of  grass  for  the 
plucky  mules.  We  were  eight  hours  on  the  road,  and  perhaps  a dozen 
miles  from  the  main  camp  in  a straight  line,  but  had  probably  tramped 
twice  that  distance  in  getting  to  our  present  point. 

The  sky  was  lowering,  and  the  chilly  wind  blew  as  though  it  pre- 
saged a storm.  We  built  our  fire  quickly  between  two  great  pines, 
whose  thick  tops  joined  overhead,  and  hurried  our  dinner,  which  con- 
sisted of  two  loaves  of  very  nice  crisp  bread,  moulded  in  a small  milk- 
pan,  then  hardened  a little  by  being  held  over  the  fire  in  the  frying-pan, 
and  finally  baked  equally  on  both  sides  by  being  propped  up  in  front 
of  the  fire  on  a bit  of  stick.  Then  we  had  two  elk-steaks  apiece  and  a 
rasher  of  breakfast  bacon  for  relish,  together  with  coffee  (no  milk)  and 
stewed  plums  from  California.  After  dinner  we  heated  some  water  in 
the  frying-pan,  washed  our  dishes,  hobbled  the  mules,  put  more  fruit 
a-stewing  for  breakfast,  baked  some  new  bread,  smoked  our  pipes,  and 
fell  to  talking  about  bears,  since  signs  of  their  frequent  presence  were 
very  observable  everywhere  in  this  neighborhood. 

“ Harry,  did  you  ever  actually  see  a grizzly  bear?” 

Preposterous  question  ! Much  like  tossing  a red  rag  to  a bull.  He 
is  lying  with  length  and  breadth  full  unfolded  in  the  ease  of  well- 
earned  rest,  his  broad  sombrero  pushed  back  until  the  yellow  blaze 
lights  up  his  brown  face  with  strong  and  ruddy  light,  like  some  por- 
trait by  Rubens.  There  is  grief  and  astonishment  in  his  eye  as  he 
repeats, 

“ Did  I ever  see  a grizzly  ! Well,  I allow  it  was  only  two  year  ago 
my  horse  Tex  and  me  was  corralled  by  seven  of  ’em  in  Colorado!  It 
was  on  White  river,  in  September.  Td  been  out  ‘and  shot  a blacktail, 
and  was  a-bringin’  the  quarters  into  camp  tied  behind  the  saddle,  an’  I 
spose  the  bears  smelt  ’em  ; for  all  at  wunst  there  was  the  damnedest 
rustlin’  round  ! and  I knowed  what  it  was.  But  we  couldn’t  stir  a step 
— was  just  stuck  in  them  bushes,  an’  had  to  fight.  Texas  stood  still, 
and  I says  to  myself,  ‘Just  you  come  out  where  I can  see,  and  I’ll  give 
one  dose  anyhow  1’  But  they  got  scared,  or  suthin’,  and  went  off  up 
the  hill.  There  was  seven  of  ’em,  young  and  old,  and  all  right  up  on 


“DISCRETION  THE  BETTER  PART  OF  VALOR. 


185 


end.  Well,  I didn’t  fool  away  no  time  gettin’  out  o’  that,  now,  you  may 
bet  your  life ! 

“It  was  that  same  trip,”  Harry  continued,  “when  we  was  down  in 
the  Grand  River  canon,  that  we  had  some  fun  with  a bear;  but  he  was 
a cinnamon — not  so  big  as  a reg’lar  grizzly,  but  big  enough  for  me.  I 
was  skinnin’  a mountain  sheep  right  in  camp,  when  the  nigger  cook, 
George,  hollered  out,  ‘ Jee-rusalem  ! see  dat  ba’ !’  An’  I looked  round, 
and  here  come  a cinnamon  pitchin’  down  the  mountain  right  on  top  of 
us.  ‘ Oh ! what  shall  Ido?  what  shall  I do  ?’  yells  Shep  Madeira,  and 
runs  and  jumps  on  the  old  Preacher  bell-horse  and  gits,  while  George 
picks  up  the  shovel — first  thing  he  could  catch — and  runs  and  jumps 
into  Grand  river.  My  gun  wasn’t  close  by  me,  but  I got  it  purty  quick 
and  pecked  the  bear  a couple  o’  times,  and  he  was  the  deadest  cinna- 
mon I about  ever  seen.  But  Shep  and  the  Preacher  horse  was  a devil 
of  a time  gettin’  back !” 

“That  reminds  me,”  laughed  Mr.  Wilson,  “of  a funny  thing  that 
happened  once  in  Nevada.  Coming  back  from  a mountain  one  day,  we 
surprised  a bear  and  shot  at  him,  but  missed  him,  and  he  ran  off  very 
lively.  We  followed  along  and  chased  him  right  through  camp.  There 
were  only  a Mexican  and  the  cook  there,  and  they,  seeing  the  bear  run 
by,  started  after — the  Mexican  on  the  horse  with  an  old  army  pistol, 
and  the  cook  on  foot  with  nothing  but  his  rolling-pin.  The  bear  got 
away,  but  what  the  fellow  proposed  to  do  with  the  rolling-pin  was  more 
than  I or  he  could  tell.  Emmons  and  I did  run  a bear  down  on  the 
plains  once,  though,  and  killed  him  with  our  revolvers.” 

That  called  to  Harry’s  memory  an  outfit  he  was  with  once,  where  a 
Mexican  saw  a bear  not  far  from  camp,  and  having  shot  at  it,  started 
after  on  a mule.  Now  a mule  will  nearly  jump  out  of  his  skin  at  sight 
or  smell  of  Bruin,  and  the  Mexican  must  have  known  it ; but  he  rode 
hotly  after  the  grizzly  all  the  same,  along  the  steep  side  of  the  moun- 
tain. It  was  supposed  he  must  have  met  him,  for  when  the  mule  rushed 
back  to  camp  riderless  and  they  went  to  look  for  the  Mexican,  they 
found  him  down  in  the  canon,  where  his  mule  had  probably  thrown 
him,  with  his  brains  dashed  out  against  a rock. 

“Well,”  rejoined  Harry — for  none  of  the  rest  of  us  offered  any  far- 
ther experiences,  though  our  chief  might  have  detailed  many — “ I’ve 
seen  lots  of  fellers  terrible  anxious  to  shoot  a grizzly — till  they  seed 
one.  There  was  a little  feller  from  California  named  Charlie  Millen. 
Charlie  was  crazy  to  slay  a bear,  and  one  day  one  of  the  men  came  in 
and  said  that  a terrible  big  grizzly  was  down  in  the  canon.  So  Millen 

13 


186 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


he  gets  his  gun  and  starts  after  that  bear  red-hot.  He  got  on  his  trail, 
and  followed  along  till  he  come  to  some  bushes,  and  was  a-goin’  through 
’em,  when  all  at  wunst  he  come  right  on  the  grizzly  lying  down  right  in 
the  trail,  with  his  head  on  a log.  He  wasn’t  more’n  ten  feet  away,  and 
Charlie  just  gave  one  look,  and  then  he  lit  out  for  camp.  He’d  had 
enough  grizzly  just  seein’  them  eyes. 

“Then  there  was  another  feller  I knowed — a sailor.  He  thought 
he  was  the  devil  at  shootin’  bears,  and  was  spilin’  for  a chance  to  try. 
Well,  one  day  I saw  some  signs,  and  told  him  I ’lowed  if  he’d  go  down 
in  the  willows  he’d  get  a shot.  So  off  he  goes,  and  pretty  soon  we 
heerd  a devil  of  a hollerin’,  and  there  was  that  sailor  up  a tree ! He’d 
wounded  a cinnamon,  and  she  came  for  him,  and  before  he  could  shin 
up  the  little  cottonwood  damned  if  she  didn’t  claw  the  whole  seat  out 
o’  that  snoozer’s  breeches.  He  didn’t  want  any  more  grizzly  in  his’n 
neither !” 

So  the  stories  go  on,  as  easily  as  the  smoke  rises  upward  and  drifts 
away  across  the  face  of  the  moon.  Finally  the  coffee  is  well  browned, 
the  pipes  are  out,  the  camp-fire  sinks  into  embers  and  then  into  ashes ; 
darkness  and  stillness  reign  in  the  mountains,  and  each  story  teller  and 
story  listener  is  only  a gray  mound  of  blankets  and  fur. 

The  gray  of  the  morning  found  our  camp  awake,  and  the  smoke  of 
our  fire  warmed  the  wings  of  the  earliest  birds — and  there  were  plenty 
to  be  warmed  around  this  frozen  lake,  with  tuneful  throats,  too.  Before 
sunrise,  therefore,  in  order  to  get  the  clear  morning  light  on  the  land- 
scape and  take  advantage  of  the  unmelted  crust  of  the  snow,  the  long 
climb  was  begun. 

First  there  was  a tedious  tramp  of  three  miles  over  the  roughest  of 
rocks,  where  living  timber  grew  thick  and  dead  logs  lay  thicker,  with 
snow  and  bogs  between.  This  was  enough  to  tire  a strong  man  out, 
yet  it  was  only  the  preface.  Above  the  last  tree  stretched  two  thou- 
sand five  hundred  feet  (half  a mile)  of  snow,  lying  at  as  steep  an  angle 
as  gravitation  would  allow,  and  relieved  only  by  black  ridges  of  rough 
rock ; nevertheless  the  climb  was  not  a perilous  one,  requiring  only 
steady,  muscle -straining,  breath -exhausting  work,  and  three  hours  of 
this  did  it. 

The  summit  proved  to  be  a ridge  two  or  three  hundred  feet  long, 
on  which  lay  a deep  bank  of  snow.  On  what  seemed  the  most  advan- 
tageous part  of  this  ridge  the  instrument  was  planted,  and,  the  weather 
being  favorable,  although  naturally  cold  and  windy,  a good  set  of  observa- 
tions were  secured  with  speed.  No  traces  of  General  Fremont’s  visit  were 


IMMENSITY  AND  POWER  OE  GEOGONIC  AGENCIES. 


187 


to  be  found  ; but  had  there  been  any — which  is  uncertain — the  deep 
snow  would  have  hidden  them.  All  material  being  buried,  the  building 
of  a monument  was  out  of  the  question  ; and  the  return,  although  not 
by  any  means  easy,  was  so  much  more  quickly  accomplished  that  the 
camp  was  reached  by  noon.  Then  the  furniture  of  our  house — for  a 
night’s  lodging-place  in  this  utter  wilderness  has  the  semblance  and  re- 
ceives the  regard  of  a house — was  packed  on  our  mules  and  in  our  sad- 
dle-pockets, our  hot  and  hasty  lunch  was  eaten,  and  the  march  taken 
up  for  the  main  camp  in  the  valley  by  one  o’clock.  The  snow  we  had 
driven  our  mules  over  the  day  before  was  too  soft  to  hold  them  now, 
and  they  floundered  so  in  the  very  first  drift,  actually  rolling  over  and 
over  in  the  slush,  that  we  had  to  go  ahead  and  tramp  a road  through 
for  long  distances.  But  this  was  ended  at  last ; and,  following  our 
trail  back  with  less  difiiculty  than  we  had  made  it,  the  main  camp  was 
reached  in  the  early  evening,  and  we  sat  down  to  our  supper  of  fried 
trout  with  eminent  satisfaction. 

This  ends  our  special  exploration  of  the  Wind  River  range,  and  I 
wish  to  give  some  general  facts  ascertained  about  it  before  going  far- 
ther, for  these  magnificent  elevations  are  almost  entirely  unknown,  or 
misunderstood,  and  are  attracting  much  attention  and  inquiry  at  pres- 
ent throughout  the  West.  Beginning  at  the  Sweetwater  river,  in  longi- 
tude 109°  and  latitude  42°  15',  approximately,  the  range  extends  north- 
ward to  Union  pass,  the  whole  length  being  about  seventy-five  miles 
in  a straight  line.  Although  well  defined  on  each  side  it  is  the  greatest 
mass  of  mountains  in  Wyoming  Territory,  and  contains  the  highest 
peaks,  unless  the  Bighorn  mountains  should  prove  far  more  imposing 
than  they  look.  The  Wind  River  is  really  a double  range  of  peaks  side 
by  side  for  the  whole  distance,  but  at  frequent  intervals  a mountain  or 
lofty  ‘‘  saddle  ” will  stand  between  the  two  ranges,  connecting  them 
into  a series  of  circles  of  peaks.  I know  of  no  range  which  might  so 
properly  be  termed  a chain  as  this,  whose  mighty  links  are  defined  by 
walls  of  towering  rock  and  hollowed  into  tremendous  depths.  To  look 
from  a summit  into  one  of  these  amphitheatres  scattered  from  end  to 
end  of  the  interior  of  the  range  is  to  pause  in  amazement  at  the  thought 
of  the  immensity  and  power  of  the  agencies  that  have  worked  together 
to  shape  these  masses.  By  what  inconceivable  fires  was  this  adamant 
forged,  and  with  what  unspeakable  throes  of  nature  was  it  cast  up,  and 
through  what  patient  labor  of  winter  and  summer,  glacier  and  lightning, 
was  it  fashioned  into  its  present  form?  Conjecture  long  may  busy  it- 
self, and  science  ponder  well,  before  the  history  of  these  monuments 


188 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


of  the  infancy  of  the  globe  is  made  plain  to  us.  To  try  to  think  of 
when  these  rocks  were  new  is  to  begin  to  understand  in  what  very 
ancient  times  we  live. 

But,  to  resume  a more  literal  treatment  of  my  theme,  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  these  interior,  cliff-hemmed  valleys  are  very  grand.  Each 
one  is  a vast  hole,  the  bottom  occupied  by  a lake,  frozen  during  four- 
fifths  of  the  year,  and  having  no  apparent  outlet  or  draining  through  a 
narrow  cleft  to  form  a river  below.  Seen  from  above  these  lakes  look 
black,  except  when  covered  with  snow,  and  from  them  the  land  ascends 
in  masses  of  solid  rock  and  slopes  of  splintered  dt^bris  to  the  high  peaks 
or  to  the  top  of  the  talus,  or  the  boundary  wall,  which  often  has  a verti- 
cal face  of  a thousand,  fifteen  hundred,  or  two  thousand  feet.  Within 
these  canons  some  trees  may  grow,  perhaps,  along  the  edge  of  the  lake, 
but  scraggily,  and  showing  that  they  have  a hard  time  of  it,  and  you 
may  creep  down  into  most  of  the  basins  and  creep  out  again,  but  hav- 
ing done  it  once  you  will  not  care  to  repeat  the  feat.  I know  this  from 
experience. 

The  inside  walls  of  all  the  mountains,  as  I have  already  indicated, 
are  for  the  most  part  nearly  vertical  from  immense  heights,  but  their 
outsides  shov/  a series  of  slopes  divided  into  great  ridges  and  buttresses 
by  glacier-cut  canons,  and  propped  up  by  foot-hills  of  unusually  rough 
aspect.  Nowhere  in  the  West  is  the  prodigious  effect  of  ice  in  shaping 
mountain  ranges  more  manifest  than  in  this  chain.  The  paths  of  old 
glaciers,  and  the  gigantic  furrows  they  have  ploughed,  are  visible  all  the 
way  to  the  desolation-scarred  summits,  while  rank  behind  rank  of  the 
outer  foot-hills,  and  the  plains  far  beyond  them,  are  moraines  of  gravel 
shoved  up  under  the  prows  of  the  glaciers,  deposited  along  their  sides, 
or  rolled  out  from  beneath  their  blue  arches  by  the  rivers  which  their 
melting  fed.  In  many  cases  these  banks  of  gravel  and  bowlders  remain 
as  they  were  heaped  up  by  ice,  but  more  often  they  are  changed  from 
their  original  form,  and  owe  their  present  appearance  to  the  action  of 
water  subsequent  not  only  to  the  retreat  of  the  great  continental  ice- 
sheet  at  the  close  of  the  glacial  epoch,  but  also  after  the  disappearance 
of  the  local  glaciers  which  remained  for  thousands  of  years,  no  doubt, 
in  this  stronghold  of  cold,  but  gradually  succumbed  to  the  increasing 
warmth  of  the  air  as  the  progress  toward  the  present  continued.  What 
now  are  canons  these  local  glaciers  filled  full  of  slowly  but  steadily 
moving  ice,  thousands  of  feet  thick,  whose  under  surfaces,  shod  with  a 
rasp  of  granite  blocks  frozen  in,  filed  deeper  and  deeper  the  vast  grooves 
in  which  they  slid,  pushing  the  chips  out  ahead  of  their  advancing  front. 


AMELIORATIVE  CHANGES  DURING  PAST  AGES. 


189 


and  spreading  them  far  and  wide  by  torrents  of  water  poured  from  be- 
neath them.  Each  year,  as  the  change  from  the  frigid  to  a warmer 
climate  went  on,  the  winters  would  be  shorter  and  less  severe,  the  snow 
less  and  less  in  amount,  affording  the  glaciers  less  nourishment  and  cur- 
tailing their  growth.  Each  summer,  therefore,  the  ridge  pushed  up  by  the 
advance  of  the  ice  during  the  previous  winter  would  be  a little  behind 
the  ridge  made  by  the  larger  growth  of  the  previous  year  ; and  thus 
a succession  of  ridges  of  rolled  fragments  and  soil  would  be  left  lying 
across  the  valleys  from  the  outermost  edge  of  the  mountains  up  toward 
the  summits.  The  canons,  vacated  by  the  glaciers  when  at  last  the 
milder  climate  would  no  longer  allow  of  their  formation,  would  then 
become  the  channels  for  the  drainage  of  the  vast  depths  of  snow  which 
at  that  time  covered  the  range  ; and  how  broad  those  great  streams 
of  melted  snow  were,  is  plain  from  these  wide  beds  cut  down  the  side  of 
every  mountain.  But  the  warmth  of  the  climate  of  this  latitude  con- 
tinued to  increase,  less  snow  to  fall  annually,  and  the  volume  of  water 
to  decrease  in  proportion,  until  now  the  largest  outlets  of  the  greatest 
snow-banks  are  mere  rills  meandering  among  the  pebbles  of  ancient 
channels  far  within  the  terraced  margins  of  the  old  flood.  The  Green 
river  of  to-day,  compared  with  the  Green  river  ten  thousand  years  ago 
— and  the  general  course  is  the  same  now  as  then — is  as  a scratch  of 
my  pen  down  the  page  on  which  I write. 

Viewed  from  the  west,  and  I fancy  equally  from  the  plains  which 
spread  from  its  eastern  base,  the  Wind  River  range  fills  the  horizon 
with  a tumult  of  lofty  mountains.  I am  warned  by  the  fate  of  many 
before  me  not  to  attempt  any  set  description  of  this  chaos.  There  are 
domes  and  pyramids,  cones  and  pinnacles,  and  mighty  slabs  on  edge 
like  the  Qurbing  of  a continent,  nowhere  standing  in  orderly  rank,  one 
behind  the  other,  but  everywhere  between  the  eastern  and  western 
foot-hills  tossed  in  white  crests  and  ridges  irregularly,  like  the  foam- 
ing and  curling  tops  of  the  bewildered  waves  in  a chopped  sea.  They 
seem  ready  at  any  instant  to  break  into  new  combinations  of  dome  and 
peak,  yet  stand  forever  the  same.  It  is  what  Thoreau  called  ‘‘  tumultu- 
ous silence.”  They  seem  ever  stormy.  Our  experience  among  them 
I have  detailed — it  was  like  February  all  the  time,  though  our  almanacs 
pointed  to  midsummer.  Since  we  have  left  these  canons  we  have  seen 
the  tempests  marching  among  them  back  and  forth,  mustering  upon  the 
high  summits  and  charging  down  the  valleys.  This  stormy  climate,  the 
quantity  of  snow  they  hold,  the  lateness  of  the  season  before  it  begins 
to  melt,  the  new  appearance  of  the  cliffs,  the  scantiness  of  the  soil  and 


190 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


size  of  the  rivers,  the  young  look  of  the  forests,  all  point  to  the  conclu- 
sion that,  geologically  speaking,  it  was  only  a short  time  ago  when  the 
ice  held  full  sway  among  these  remarkable  mountains,  and  when  winter 
was  never  absent  from  their  fastnesses.  Old  Boreas  even  now  is  loath 
to  leave  this  castle. 


THE  WIND  RIVERS. 


There  is  no  range  of  mountains  in  this  country,  and  perhaps  none 
in  the  world,  that  support  so  large  a drainage.  From  the  southern 
slope  flows  the  Sweetwater,  a river  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  long,  and 
the  largest  affluent  of  the  Platte.  Near  it  half  a dozen  large  streams 
find  their  way  out  of  the  canons  and  unite  to  form  the  Wind  river, 
which  empties  into  the  Bighorn  river  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
north,  receiving  many  small  streams  by  the  way,  while  the  Bighorn 
itself  takes  its  origin  there.  Then  the  western  slope  feeds,  through  in- 
numerable creeks,  the  Green  river,  which  heads  at  the  northern  end  of 
the  range  and  gets  water  enough  to  flow  two  thousand  miles  to  the 
Gulf  of  California.  But  this  is  not  all.  Rising  at  Union  Peak,  the 
northernmost  of  the  Wind  River  mountains,  and  divided  from  the  Green 
by  a line  of  hills,  the  Snake  river  starts  on  its  long  voyage  southward 


IMMENSITY  OF  THE  RIVER-COURSES  AND  SUPPLY. 


191 


through  Wyoming  and  Idaho,  and  thence  flows  north-westward  into 
Oregon  to  make  the  Columbia.  Clark’s  Fork  of  the  Columbia,  the  Yel- 
lowstone, the  Gros  Ventre,  and  innumerable  minor  watercourses  also  owe 
their  strength  to  these  generous  reservoirs.  The  amount  of  snow  that 
is  stored  up  here,  to  be  slowly  dealt  out,  can  be  appreciated  when  it  is 
considered  how  many  thousands  of  miles  its  meltings  run  ; and  it  is 
not  difficult  to  understand  why  the  neighborhood  of  such  an  abode  of 
cold,  in  the  midst  of  wide  and  heated  plains,  should  be  a scene  of  al- 
most perpetual  storm.  It  is  the  head-quarters  of  meteorology  on  this 
side  of  the  world,  and  this  single  group  of  mountains  saves  Wyoming 
from  being  what  old  geographers  used  to  have  it — a great  American 
desert. 

The  mountains  of  this  chain  consist  altogether  of  granite,  this  prime- 
val rock  being  manifested  in  all  its  forms,  with  more  or  less  gneiss.  At 
the  northern  end  high  bluffs  of  sandstone  and  limestone  are  tipped  up 
against  the  granite  overlying  it.  Of  course,  veins  of  quartz  intersect 
the  granite  in  every  direction,  and  in  endless  variety  of  character,  shape, 
and  condition.  Our  men,  familiar  with  the  appearance  of  all  sorts  of 
American  auriferous  quartz,  could  duplicate  every  kind  they  had  ever 
seen  in  the  specimens  chipped  from  the  leads  or  found  in  the  ‘‘  washes  ” 
of  rolled  gravel.  There  were  veins  of  pure  shining  crystals,  adhering 
sharply  to  their  granite  walls,  or  lying  between  granite  on  one  side  and 
gneiss  on  the  other ; veins  of  opaque  green  quartz  ; veins  of  decom- 
posed quartz,  red  as  cinnabar ; veins  dark  brown  ; veins  ochre-yellow ; 
veins  of  all  manner  of  mineral -bearing  rock,  with  the  coarser  metals 
sticking  out  of  them. 


192 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


XXIII. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  Fourth  of  July  when  we  struck  our  tents 
at  the  base  of  Fremont’s  Peak  and  bid  good-bye  to  the  Wind  Rivers — 
those  haughty  Highland  chieftains,  impassive  as  their  granite  thrones, 
bonneted  with  cloud  and  kilted  with  snow,  awaking  one  another  with 
clan-cries  of  thunder  and  flashing  claymores  of  lightning  about  their 
wrinkled  brows — leaving  them  with  little  regret,  for  they  have  not  been 
gracious,  but  rather  have  sought  to  oppress  with  their  majesty  and 
power.  So  we  clattered  gayly  through  the  bright  river,  scaring  shoals 
of  young  trout  precipitately  to  their  deep  holes,  and  wound  our  way  out 
to  the  plains  or  gravel-hills,  which  latter  gradually  became  less  and  less 
in  height,  dwindled  into  the  terraces  that  mark  the  lessening  of  the 
Green  river  from  its  ancient  breadth,  and  finally  were  lost  in  the  level 
ot  the  sage-brush  plain,  where,  in  the  bottoms,  there  was  much  alkali 
and  spots  of  soft  ground.  But  for  the  most  part,  for  mile  after  mile, 
the  surface  was  as  firm  and  level  and  smooth  as  a lawn  ; nor  was  there 
any  sage  to  trip  over,  but  short,  tough  marsh-grass,  among  which  black- 
birds bred,  clamorous  curlews  circled,  whistling  to  one  another  in  clear, 
loud  signals,  and  snipe  peeped  as  they  scuttled  away  from  our  ap- 
proach. This  was  too  good  to  last,  and  we  had  plenty  of  worse  be- 
fore we  encamped  that  night  on  a branch  of  the  river  and  smoked  our 
very  last  cigar  in  commemoration  of  Independence  Day.  The  weather 
seemed  delightfully  warm  after  the  Arctic  experiences  of  the  previous 
month  ; and  not  only  did  we  not  put  up  our  tents,  preferring,  like  Cori- 
olanus,  to  make  our  beds  under  the  canopy,  but  took  a refreshing  bath 
in  the  rapid  brook.  Among  the  willow-bushes  here  innumerable  birds 
nestled  in  happy  confidence — among  the  rest  several  fish-hawks,  whose 
huge  domiciles  were  within  reach  of  my  hand,  and  our  ornithological 
man  was  kept  busy. 

This  is  the  upper  extremity  of  the  Green  River  basin,  which  may 
properly  be  said  to  extend  southward  as  far  as  Southern  Utah,  being 
bounded  on  the  east  by  the  Wind  River  mountains,  the  Sweetwater 


THE  UPPER  LIMIT  OF  THE  GREEN  RIVER  BASIN. 


193 


hills,  the  buttes  south  of  Yellow  Butte,  and  the  Uintah  mountains,  in 
Colorado  and  Eastern  Utah.  Its  western  drainage  is  from  the  Wah- 
satch  mountains,  dividing  it  from  the  waters  of  Snake  river  and  from 
the  Salt  Lake  basin.  At  this  latitude  the  valley  varies  from  ten  to 
fifty  miles  wide,  and  is  barricaded  at  the  north  by  the  Gros  Ventre 


THE  FIELD-LABORATORY  OF  AN  ORNITHOLOGIST. 


hills,  among  which  the  Green  river  rises,  finding  exit  close  beside  the 
Snake  river,  through  Union  Pass.  But  the  Green  river  flows  fifteen 
hundred  miles  to  make  the  Rio  Colorado,  while  the  Snake  finds  its 
way  far  to  the  north  and  pours  through  the  canons  of  the  Columbia 
into  the  North  Pacific,  enclosing  between  them  a triangle  having  all 
California  and  Oregon  for  its  base. 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


194: 

It  is  too  cold  up  here  to  raise  any  crops,  but  there  is  magnificent 
grass  for  cattle  ; and  if  the  sage-brush  were  burnt  off  there  would  be 
ten  times  as  much  more.  Still  it  would  be  hard  to  winter  herds  here, 
although  a hundred  miles  lower  down  it  could  be  done  on  sheltered 
ranges.  Nothing  but  the  usurpation  of  the  ground  by  dwarf  willows 
prevents  thousands  of  acres  of  good  hay  from  growing  naturally  on  all 
these  bottoms.  The  willows  are  easily  eradicated,  nevertheless,  and  the 
hay  will  follow.  Perhaps  oats  and  barley  could  be  made  to  ripen  also. 

Starting  almost  at  sunrise  on  the  morning  of  the  5th,  we  continued 
our  northward  march  over  the  same  plains-country  and  under  a cloud- 
less sky.  It  was  warm,  truly,  but  not  sultry.  The  temperature  often 
rises  as  high  here  in  midsummer  as  in  New  York,  but  you  do  not  feel 
the  heat  so  much.  The  direct  rays  of  the  sun  are  scorching,  but  the 
air  is  not  murky ; and  if  you  get  in  the  shade  you  are  comfortable  in  a 
very  short  time.  No  one  is  ever  sunstruck  here,  and  “hardly  ever”  in 
California,  where  the  thermometer  sometimes  indicates  120  degrees.  We 
carried  canteens  of  water,  but  those  who  drank  scarcely  once  from  morn- 
ing till  night  suffered  the  least  from  thirst.  The  mountains  toward  which 
we  were  wending  our  way  were  the  Gros  Ventre  hills,  a range  of  no 
great  altitude,  stretching  east  and  west  from  the  upper  end  of  the  Wind 
Rivers  over  to  the  Snake  river — forty  miles  or  more.  Few  of  the  sum- 
mits reach  above  timber-line,  yet  all  bore  considerable  snow  and  were 
clothed  with  forests.  First  entering  groves  of  aspen-trees  of  unusually 
large  size,  and  abounding  in  underbrush  of  various  shrubs  and  plants, 
with  high  grass  in  all  the  glades,  we  soon  passed  them,  and  began  to 
climb  ridges  of  quartz-gravel,  wooded  to  the  top,  sometimes  finding  a 
game-trail  to  follow,  but  ortener  working  our  way  through  as  best  we 
might. 

Everything  showed  a rapid  and  luxuriant  growth.  The  foliage  was 
all  green,  weeds  were  high,  flowers  in  a profusion  of  bloom.  Many  spe- 
cies which  are  small  out  on  the  plains  grow  taller  and  larger  here ; the 
ground  was  sodden,  and  where  we  had  to  cross  depressions  there  was 
danger  of  miring.  Meantime  we  kept  getting  higher  and  higher,  and 
at  last  could  see  over,  and  behold  ! north  and  west  of  us  stretched  a 
great  park,  fenced  in  by  snowy  mountains,  embroidered  Avith  streams, 
and  diversified  by  low  hills  and  green  valleys,  groups  of  light  quaking- 
asp,  dense  groves  of  pine  and  spruce,  purple  patches  of  sage-brush,  and 
sunny  bits  of  prairie  where  antelopes  were  disporting.  Yet  the  en- 
trance to  this  happy  valley  so  eluded  our  grasp  that  we  were  all  day 
wandering  about  in  a dense  spruce  forest,  and  only  got  down  at  night 


DISCOMFORTS  AND  DIFFICULTIES  ENCOUNTERED. 


195 


in  time  to  startle  two  sand-hill  cranes  from  the  fen  in  which  they  lived, 
setting  them  flying  in  a crazy  manner  about  our  heads,  croaking  in  a 
guttural,  rattling  cry  like  a hoarse  frog,  and  to  camp  on  the  opposite 
hill-side  among  hosts  of  mosquitoes  that  preyed  upon  us  incessantly,  in 
spite  both  of  pitchy  smudges  and  of  the  midnight  chill. 

The  following  morning  we  were  glad  to  get  away,  but  had  little 
respite  from  the  mosquitoes  and  flies.  We  steered  for  the  highest 
promontory  ahead,  called  Wyoming  Peak,  and  went  down  some  terrible 
hills  at  the  foot  of  it.  We  could  not  ride  down,  or  at  least  we  would 
not  risk  it,  and  at  home  would  have  thought  it  almost  impossible  to 
zvalk  where  the  loaded  mules  picked  their  way  after  Mr.  Wilson  through 
the  unbroken  woods,  jumping  trees,  crushing  through  bushes,  squeezing 
between  trees,  and  pushing  the  gravel  ahead  of  them  at  every  descend- 
ing step.  Even  the  insects  deserted  us  here.  They  couldn’t  stick  on 
the  mules’  backs  at  such  an  angle.  This  done,  and  a number  of  other 
difficulties  surmounted  without  accident,  we  crossed  a torrent  of  sudsy 
water,  and  began  to  climb  through  the  woods,  where  fallen  timber  was 
thick,  up  to  the  open  plateaus  above,  and  at  last  camped  at  the  limit  of 
tree  growth — perhaps  10,500  feet  above  the  sea — in  the  last  grove  of 
dwarf  spruces.  Enough  of  the  day  remained  to  make  the  topographical 
sightings  wished  for  from  the  peak,  and  this  was  done  satisfactorily. 
These  hills  consist  of  upheaved  edges  and  gullied-out  ridges  of  sand- 
stone and  limestone  strata,  the  latter  being  above.  From  their  north- 
ern slope  the  Green  river  originates  and  flows  out  to  the  south,  around 
their  eastern  end,  instead  of  rising  east  of  Union  Peak,  among  the  Wind 
River  mountains,  as  had  been  supposed.  Near  the  head  of  the  Green 
are  the  springs  of  the  Gros  Ventre  river,  which  flows  westward  a hun- 
dred miles  or  so,  and  becomes  one  of  the  largest  tributaries  of  the 
Snake.  This  river  and  the  hills,  which  do  not  rise  more  than  12,500 
feet  at  the  highest,  are  named  after  the  Gros  Ventre  Indians,  a tribe 
that  once  inhabited  the  Upper  Missouri,  and  were  famous  in  the  time 
of  Lewis  and  Clarke.  They  were  gradually  driven  back  and  killed  off, 
until  the  remnant  is  now  in  Dakota.  Beyond  the  Gros  Ventre  a very 
mountainous  country  extends  to  the  Yellowstone  Park,  which  itself  is 
by  no  means  small.  From  the  western  termination  of  the  Gros  Ventre 
hills  there  stretches  southward  an  unnamed  range  of  mountains,  whose 
summits  rise  far  above  timber-line  and  hold  much  snow,  It  is  really  a 
continuation  of  the  Wahsatch,  and  perhaps  ought  not  to  receive  any 
separate  name  ; nevertheless  it  is  well  isolated  from  the  rest  of  that 
chain,  which  is  ill -defined  at  best.  It  is  this  range  that  makes  the 


196 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


western  wall  of  the  Green  River  valley,  and  toward  a high  point  near 
its  northern  end  we  directed  our  next  day’s  long  and  tiresome  march. 

But  one  word  about  our  camping-place  on  the  mountain.  The  site 
was  a ledge,  or  hill-top,  just  under  the  edge  of  the  crowning  bluff,  and 
the  easily  crumbling  sandstone  had  formed  a deep  soil.  Wherever  the 
snow  was  gone  we  saw  that  this  soil  was  thrown  up  into  innumerable 
ridges  by  the  moles,  which  had  tunnelled  under  the  snow  in  every 
direction.  Instead  of  “making  a mountain  out  of  a mole-hill,”  these 
little  miners  had  been  making  mole -hills  out  of  the  mountain.  The 
least  current  of  water  running  from  the  drifts  carried  away  this  loosened 
earth,  and  thus  the  soil  to  a depth  of  several  inches  is  yearly  stripped 
off  the  height  and  contributed  to  the  valley.  Blind  moles  are  level- 
ling the  Rocky  Mountains ! Getting  down  without  extraordinary  dif- 
ficulty into  the  gulch,  through  which  a fair -sized  stream,  called  Fall 
river  by  the  trappers,  made  its  way  out  into  the  park  we  had  seen  on 
the  previous  day,  we  rode  along  its  banks.  It  was  full  to  the  brim  of 
muddy  water,  for  the  unusual  warmth  of  the  past  two  days  had  pro- 
duced a freshet. 

In  almost  any  stream  in  the  mountainous  parts  of  the  Territory 
you  may  find  more  or  less  beavers  and  beaver  dams.  But  this  stream, 
and  this  whole  region,  surpasses  any  place  I know  of  as  a resort  for 
these  animals,  now  so  scarce  east  of  the  Mississippi.  In  the  rocky 
canon  higher  up,  this  creek  was  thirty  or  forty  yards  across,  nor  would 
it  have  been  much  wider  in  the  more  open  valley  below,  had  it  not 
been  impeded  ; but  for  a dozen  miles  the  beavers  had  so  dammed  it 
and  choked  it  with  their  houses  that  the  water  spread  out  to  a mile 
or  more  in  width,  and  hundreds  of  dead  and  living  trees,  once  far  back 
from  the  margin,  were  now  standing  equally  far  out  in  the  water. 
Some  of  the  dams  measured  a hundred  or  more  feet  in  length,  and 
were  built  on  a curve,  with  the  hollow  of  the  curve  up  stream,  yet  so 
substantially  that  they  were  standing  the  beating  of  this  freshet  with 
slight  damage.  All  along  the  bank  of  the  stream  the  hill-side  was  bare 
of  aspens,  and  their  stumps,  cut  off  close  to  the  ground,  showed  what 
had  destroyed  them.  Some  of  the  stumps  were  of  trees  ten  or  twelve 
inches  in  diameter,  and  seventy -five  yards  from  the  water,  yet  there 
was  no  doubt  that  these  rodents  had  felled  those  trees,  trimmed  off 
the  branches,  peeled  away  the  bark,  and  then  dragged  the  logs  all  the 
way  to  the  water,  to  put  into  a new  dam  or  repair  an  old  one.  Indeed, 
we  surprised  some  of  them  at  work.  Most  of  the  dams  were  shorter 
than  I have  mentioned,  and  ran  from  one  to  another,  so  that  there  was 


A PROSPECTIVE  FIELD  FOR  THE  BEAVER  TRAPPER. 


197 


a net-work  of  them  supporting  a growth  of  willows,  and  each  enclosing 
a little  basin  of  deep,  still  water,  in  which  would  rise  like  an  island  the 
domed  top  of  their  home.  But  the  houses  of  many  were  under  the 


IN  THE  GROS  VENTRE  HILLS. 


bank,  and  of  others  beneath  the  dams,  as  we  could  see  by  the  paths  to 
them,  which  showed  plainly  through  the  water.  Wherever  the  willows 
grew  closely  to  the  water’s  edge  for  some  distance,  there  would  be  roads 
through  them  at  frequent  intervals,  the  stems  gnawed  off,  and  the 
weeds  trodden  down  smooth.  ‘‘  Busy  as  a beaver  ” acquires  a new 
force  when  we  think  how  ceaselessly  he  must  work  to  get  his  daily 
food,  collect  winter  stores,  keep  his  house  in  order,  repair  his  dam,  and 
guard  against  enemies.  We  saw  none  of  the  animals  themselves.  They 
are  rarely  seen  by  any  one  who  does  not  secretly  watch,  being  able  to 
detect  your  approach  by  the  jar  of  the  ground,  if  not  otherwise,  and 
hide  themselves. 

A good  trapper  ought  to  secure  a thousand  dollars’  worth  of  beaver 
skins  on  this  one  stream  in  a single  winter,  and  there  are  other  great 
communities  within  a short  distance.  He  would  find  the  place  an  ex- 
cellent one  to  spend  the  winter  in,  too.  Besides  the  beaver  he  would 


198 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


get  not  a few  otters,  whose  skins  are  worth  seven  or  eight  dollars 
apiece,  and  martens,  minks,  and  fishers  in  the  marshes  ; but  he  must 
go  away  from  the  big  beaver  colonies  for  the  others,  none  of  these 
animals,  and  particularly  the  otter,  consorting  well  with  the  trowel- 
tailed gentry.  In  the  mountains  and  woods,  to  which  the  hunter  win- 
tering in  the  Fall  River  valley  would  have  access,  he  would  be  able  to 
shoot  and  trap  bears,  both  grizzlies  and  the  cinnamons,  wolves  (both 
gray  and  the  prairie),  wild-cats,  lynxes,  and  foxes.  All  these  furs  would 
be  valuable,  and  he  could  get  plenty  of  venison  and  “small  deer”  for 
his  larder,  not  to  speak  of  skunks  to  bait  his  traps  with,  and  the  feath- 
ers of  the  sage-hen  as  a lure  to  his  mink  and  marten  snares. 

It  was  at  the  lower  end  of  this  stream  that  we  started  a band  of  elks 
(consisting  of  a young  buck  with  half-developed  horns,  and  several  does) 
from  the  shallows,  where  they  were  pawing  in  the  water  to  escape  the 
flies.  They  did  not  notice  us  till  we  were  right  upon  them,  and  no  less 
than  three  Nimrods  banged  away,  only  breaking  the  leg  of  one  doe,  which 
ran  away,  the  injured  limb  swinging  like  a rope’s  end.  A second  shot 
mercifully  killed  her.  She  had  a small  calf — a circumstance  not  known 
when  the  first  shot  was  fired — and  this  calf,  in  its  bewilderment,  came 
right  toward  us,  bleating  pitifully.  It  would  have  starved  to  death,  and 
so  we  shot  it,  and  the  veal  proved  to  be  very  good.  The  abundance  of 
game  which  I have  chronicled  in  my  notes  on  the  Sweetwater  country, 
has  continued,  but  we  have  not  seen  quite  so  many  individuals,  because 
the  regions  we  have  traversed  of  late  have  been  less  open,  affording 
more  hiding-places ; because  the  mosquitoes  and  flies  have  driven  them 
up  above  the  timber  or  into  the  dense  brush  ; and  lastly,  because  the 
Indians  have  been  hunting  through  here  for  some  weeks,  and  have  made 
the  animals  wary.  We  noticed  this  at  once  after  getting  into  the  Green 
River  basin,  before  which  the  elks  and  deer  regarded  us  with  an  uncon- 
cern equal  to  that  Selkirk  complained  of  on  his  lone  island : 

“The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 
My  form  with  indifference  see ; 

They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man. 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me.” 

I can’t  say  that  the  tameness  of  these  “beasts”  shocked  us  partic- 
ularly; but  we  were  so  loath  to  impose  upon  their  confidence  that  I 
know  of  but  one  that  has  been  shot  uselessly.  Lately  the  antelope 
have  fled  at  our  approach,  and  the  larger  game  have  made  themselves 
scarce.  Our  hunting  propensities  consequently  have  been  excited,  but 


“THE  NOBLEST  OF  GAME.” 


199 


somewhat  fruitlessly,  not  having  time  to  hunt  systematically ; yet  we 
have  not  been  a single  day  since  the  beginning  of  the  trip  without  at 
least  two  varieties  of  venison  in  camp.  “Sow-belly”  has  not  been  in 
lively  demand,  therefore,  although  a few  bites,  nicely  cooked,  season  a 
meal  well. 

Latterly  we  have  struck  the  bighorns,  which  we  had  not  seen  since 
leaving  the  Seminole  mountains.  They  are  the  noblest  of  game,  after 
all.  Much  like  the  chamois  or  ibex,  the  man  who  would  get  them,  even 
though  they  never  saw  the  human  form  before,  must  have  the  strength 
and  agility  to  climb  to  the  loftiest  ledges  and  skill  to  shoot  at  long 
range.  Even  then  he  may  lose  his  dead  game,  its  body  often  tumbling 
over  some  precipice  utterly  out  of  his  reach.  The  mountains  west  of 
Green  river  are  full  of  them,  and  in  making  stations  upon  their  summits 
the  topographer  has  a good  chance  at  them.  Once  or  twice  we  have 
had  bands  in  sight  for  two  or  three  hours  at  a time,  feeding  upon  the 
green  hill-tops  below  us,  where  scattering  clumps  of  dwarf  spruces  fur- 
nished shelter  when  they  cared  to  rest,  and  the  young  grass  afforded 
the  best  of  pasture.  It  was  very  interesting  to  watch  them.  An  old 
ram  or  two,  easily  distinguished  by  the  immense  horns  from  ewes, 
whose  horns  are  small  and  light,  would  lead  the  flock,  and  there  would 
be  from  ten  to  fifty  younger  rams,  ewes,  and  kids  following.  How  they 
can  run ! Let  the  ground  be  rough  or  smooth,  level  or  inclined,  it 
seems  to  make  no  difference,  and  the  kids  will  race  up  and  down  the 
steep  snow-banks  just  for  fun.  The  hair  of  these  mountain  sheep  is 
coarse  and  slightly  crinkey,  and  when  the  bluish  winter-coat  comes  out, 
displacing  gradually  the  brown  summer  pelt,  you  may  find  everywhere 
between  the  hairs  a shorter  coat — a sort  of  undershirt — of  the  finest 
silky  wool.  The  flesh  of  the  bighorn  is  tender  and  juicy  in  the  autumn, 
when  the  animals  become  fat,  and  has  a taste  between  mutton  and  an- 
telope, partaking  of  both.  We  have  seen  one  small  company  of  buffa- 
loes west  of  Green  river,  and  their  skulls  are  scattered  over  all  these 
hills  up  to  timber-line.  This  plenitude  of  animal  life  and  wealth  of  all 
such  vegetation  as  the  climate  will  permit  (for  the  valleys  are  eight 
thousand  feet  in  height)  is  due  both  to  the  sheltered  position  of  the 
district  among  the  mountains  and  to  the  constant  moisture  supplied  by 
the  melting  snow-banks.  These  very  circumstances  are  productive  of 
two  great  disadvantages,  without  which  the  Green  River  basin  would 
be  a paradise  for  travellers.  One  of  these  is  the  increase  of  the  streams 
by  the  raising  of  the  water  in  the  beaver  dams,  causing  them  to  be 
boggy  and  unfordable  for  long  distances. 


200 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


Another  disadvantage,  springing  from  the  amount  of  still  water 
lying  everywhere,  are  the  hordes  and  hosts  and  legions  and  myriads  of 
mosquitoes  and  flies — flies  large  and  small,  all  sizes  and  shapes  and  col- 
ors, but  with  a single  eye  to  blood,  and  no  compunction  as  to  what 
they  puncture.  Mule  and  man  alike  were  attacked,  and  with  equal 
ferocity.  We  did  nothing  but  fight  flies  day  and  night,  decking  our 
riding-animals  with  boughs  till  they  looked  like  the  duck-batteries  gun- 
ners use  along  the  New  Jersey  coast,  and  slashing  about  our  heads  with 


A LEISURE  AFTERNOON. 


other  branches  till  our  arms  ached.  There  were  the  black  flies  of  the 
Adirondacks,  the  ’skeeters  of  Jersey,  the  blunderheads  of  the  Catskills, 
the  buffalo  gnats  of  the  plains,  and  a giant  of  a horse-fly  peculiar  to 
these  mountains.  Nor  when  we  got  out  of  the  timber  and  camped 
away  above  on  a bald  ledge,  hoping  to  get  rid  of  them,  did  the  flies 
“ let  up,”  but  swarmed  about  us  as  we  ate,  buzzing  in  our  ears,  getting 
into  our  food,  and  running  red-hot  needles  into  every  exposed  part  of 
our  bodies.  At  dark  they  all  disappeared,  but  were  relieved  by  the 
mosquitoes,  who  kept  the  battle  up  till  midnight  froze  them  out. 


DESCENDING  A MOUNTAIN. 


201 


XXIV. 

Several  days  were  spent  in  hard  climbing  about  these  precipitous, 
untracked  hills,  and  in  wading  through  the  slushy  snow  on  their  high 
crests.  Their  tops  were  all  covered  with  fragments  of  stone  quarried 
out  by  the  frosts,  and  on  the  edges  of  the  cliffs  huge  masses  are  sepa- 
rated and  just  ready  to  topple.  In  the  season  of  melting,  therefore,  it  is 
unsafe  to  go  to  the  brink  of  a sharp  bluff,  lest  your  weight  may  send 
the  whole  crumbling  edge  headlong.  But  we  found  some  slopes,  and 
had  good  fun  rolling  stones;  just  as  they  got  well  started  they  had  to 
bound  off  a cliff  and  then  “scoot”  over  a thousand  feet  of  steep  snow, 
racing  beyond  this  across  a frozen  lake  and  broad  valley.  No  one 
can  resist  the  fascination  of  setting  rocks  a-rolling  from  the  top  of  a 
mountain.  You  turn  loose  a tremendous  amount  of  force,  and  feel  like 
a giant  as  your  hard-headed  missile  crushes  its  way  among  snow  and 
loose  rocks,  opening  lanes  through  the  bushes,  snapping  off  trees  like 
pipe-stems  (if  the  bowlders  be  large  and  tough),  and  bounding  on  till 
they  are  lost  to  view.  You  have  made  a catapult  of  yourself,  and  you 
enjoy  it. 

Coming  down  a mountain  two  or  three  thousand  feet  is  quick  work, 
but  it  makes  your  knees  ache ; and  if  the  slope  consists  of  large,  angular 
fragments  of  rock,  as  many  of  these  summits  do,  there  is  about  as  much 
hard  work  in  it  as  in  the  climbing.  But  if  the  slope  is  loose  soil  you 
may  step  twenty  feet  at  a time,  and  thus  leap  down  swiftly,  taking  cau- 
tion not  to  trip  and  fall  on  your  nose.  When  the  snow-banks  are  hard, 
you  have  simply  to  make  use  of  that  portion  of  your  anatomy  which  a 
beneficent  Providence  designed  you  should  employ  for  this  purpose, 
and  slide  to  the  bottom  like  a shot. 

Having  completed  our  work  among  these  rough  ridges  and  turned 
southward,  there  was  great  pleasure  in  riding  down  long  valleys,  across 
the  foot-hills  and  out  through  the  park-like  country.  The  woods  showed 
an  excellence  of  growth  far  ahead  of  anything  we  had  seen  before.  In 
the  high  mountains  there  was  nothing  but  small-sized  white  pine  and 

14 


202  KNOCKING  ’ROjUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


THE  CARSON  SINK. 


slender  quaking-asps,  gnarled  and  weather  twisted.  On  the  hills  crossed 
three  days  before  the  spruces  and  pines,  though  standing  thickly,  were 
not  large,  and  while  making  good  house-logs,  would  be  useless  to  saw 
up  or  trim  for  spars.  Here  the  valleys  were  full  of  mighty  yellow  and 
white  and  pitch  pines,  ragged  spruces  three  and  four  feet  through,  and 
giants  of  red  firs,  straight  as  arrows,  with  shapely  spires  more  than  a 
hundred  feet  high.  The  poplars  and  cottonwoods  grew  to  their  utmost, 
and  between  them  were  dwarf  maples  and  sumachs,  wild  plums,  and 
many  other  shrubs  new  to  us.  The  crop  of  grass  was  dense  and  heavy 
everywhere,  proving  true  the  old  quatrain : 


A NIGHT’S  REST  ON  THE  GREEN  RIVER  PLAINS. 


203 


“A  foot  deep  of  rain 
Will  kill  hay  and  grain ; 

But  three  feet  of  snow 
Will  make  them  come  mo’.” 

Sometimes  signs  of  previous  occupancy  added  to  the  attractions  of 
a camp,  when  it  was  made  near  some  trail,  and  we  speculated  on  the 
kind  of  man  who  had  been  there  before  us.  How  long  before?  What 
was  his  object  ? And  whither  was  he  bound  ? In  a region  so  wild  and 
utterly  untenanted  as  this  anything  pertaining  to  humanity  is  invested 
with  extraordinary  interest.  From  these  foundation- sticks  we  could 
tell  the  size  and  kind  of  tent  he  had  ; from  the  tracks  could  decide  that 
his  one  animal  was  a horse,  not  a mule  (which  makes  a smaller,  nar- 
rower track),  and  knew  that  at  this  stake  he  picketed  him  at  night,  and 
by  that  path  led  him  to  the  water ; from  this  stump  we  guessed  the 
sharpness  of  his  axe ; that  wadding  told  the  size  of  his  rifle ; here  was 
his  fire ; there,  where  the  grass  is  trampled,  he  piled  his  night’s  wood. 
Where  this  hunter  or  beaver-trapper  has  camped  and  left  his  history  on 
a few  chips  there  remains  a civilized  aspect  which  Nature  must  work 
long  to  efface. 

After  they  are  weary  of  the  majesty  of  mountain  walls,  here  will 
wander  the  painters  making  studies.  I commend  to  them  some  of 
those  lakelets  set  in  a wall  of  evergreen-tangled  rock,  or  spreading  gen- 
tly over  the  green  herbage  as  the  melting  snow  trickles  into  them  and 
swells  their  flood  ; lakes  which,  in  the  sunlight,  reflect  their  margins 
like  mirrors,  and  in  the  shadow,  as  you  look  down  upon  them,  take  pre- 
cisely that  opaque,  dead,  sap-green  hue  of  the  pools  of  heavy  oil  I have 
seen  in  the  muddy  ravines  of  West  Virginia.  Ride  along  under  the 
brow  of  some  moss-grown  cliff,  and  you  are  sure  to  find  hidden  in  a 
bunch  of  greenery  a spring,  seething  quietly  with  gentle  hissing  of  small 
bubbles.  Camp  there,  and  call  it  champagne  ; its  bead  is  perpetual. 

All  day  we  had  caught  glimpses  of  the  Green  River  plains,  like  a 
misty  gray  sea,  and  in  the  afternoon  got  out  upon  them,  and  rested  at 
night  on  a creek  bottom  where  Indians  seemed  to  have  camped  for 
generations.  It  was  a pretty  place,  but  disfigured  by  dirty  debris  and 
the  remains  of  old  wicky-ups,  as  the  Indians  call  the  bough  lodges  they 
build  when  on  hunting  trips.  Angwinam,  a prominent  man  among  the 
Shoshonees,  was  camped,  with  his  family,  two  miles  distant,  and  came 
to  see  us,  happening  in,  as  if  by  accident,  just  as  dinner  was  called. 
He  was  trapping  beaver,  or,  more  exactly,  trying  to,  for  he  could  show 
none  of  the  skins  of  this  animal  among  his  collection  of  peltries. 


204: 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


There  was  a heavy  shower  that  night,  but  the  next  morning  was 
clear,  and,  saddling  early,  I started  up  to  the  top  of  a neighboring  bluff 
to  see  the  grave,  or  rather  the  corpse,  of  a child,  supposed  to  be  Ang- 
winam’s,  discovered  by  our  cook  the  evening  before.  He  described 
it  as  being  wrapped  up  in  bark  and  skins  and  cloth,  and  lashed  to  a 
frame  of  osiers  shaped  like  a snow-shoe.  This  was  lying  upon  a shel- 
tered ledge.  In  the  morning  I found  the  osier-rack,  but  no  body.  It 
had  evidently  been  taken  away  and  secreted.  The  reader  would  have 
been  amused  could  he  have  witnessed  the  exceedingly  dignified,  circum- 
spect, and  conciliatory  manner  with  which  I made  my  examinations 
there.  My  restless  mule  let  me  know  plainly  enough,  though  I could 
not  see  them,  that  Indians  were  close  by;  and  I had  a vivid  impression 
that  more  than  one  Winchester  rifle  was  waiting  a pretext  to  send  some 
bullets  into  my  sacrilegious  body. 

Meanwhile  the  train  had  “ packed  away,”  and  I could  see  it  like  a 
string  of  black  dots  far  away  on  the  prairie.  Trying  to  make  a short 
cut  across  the  beaver-dammed  creek,  I steered  my  mule  into  a likely- 
looking  shallow,  and  was  half-way  over,  when  she  suddenly  went  clear 
under  and  had  to  swim  for  it.  I stuck  to  the  saddle,  and  we  reached 
the  opposite  bank ; but  it  was  too  steep  to  climb  out,  and  Mouse  had 
to  turn  round  and  swim  back  against  the  swift  current,  well-nigh  ’ex- 
hausted when  she  attained  the  bank,  and  looking  like  a drowned  rat. 
She  recovered  her  breath  by  the  time  I had  poured  the  water  out  of 
my  boots  and  saddle-bags,  and  then  we  went  down  to  the  ford,  as  we 
ought  to  have  done  at  first. 

Fording  a river,  where  the  current  is  deep  and  rapid,  is  a dangerous 
experience  for  a pack-train.  The  attendants  must  ride  on  the  lower 
side  and  keep  the  mules  from  drifting  down-stream.  They  are  very 
sure-footed  and  plucky  under  their  loads  so  long  as  they  keep  up  ; but 
let  one  fall  down,  and  there  is  not  an  instant  to  be  lost,  if  you  would 
save  him  and  his  cargo.  Leap  into  the  water  and  help  him  up  without 
an  instant’s  delay,  for  if  he  gets  any  water  in  those  big,  furry  ears  of  his 
he  will  do  nothing  to  save  himself,  but  will  lie  there  and  drown  without 
a struggle.  Mules  can  swim  very  well,  however,  if  they  are  willing  to 
try,  as  I have  just  shown.  I had  presence  of  mind,  in  the  case  men- 
tioned above,  though  the  ducking  was  startlingly  sudden,  not  to  pull 
in  the'  least  on  the  bridle-reins — a thing  which  should  never  be  done 
in  swimming  a horse  or  mule. 

All  mules  are  very  particular  and  fastidious  about  their  ears.  They 
won’t  allow  them  to  be  touched  or  interfered  with.  These  long  and 


WIND  RIVER  AND  TEMPEST-BREEDING  HEIGHTS. 


205 


mobile  members  are  very  expressive  in  their  various  positions,  but  I 
could  never  learn  satisfactorily  what  each  position  signified,  unless  it 
was  that  the  next  movement  would  be  precisely  the  opposite  of  what 
was  apparently  intended.  The  paradox  is  this  brute’s  model  of  mental 
action.  Never  was  a mule  more  innocent  in  appearance  than  one  which 
Mr.  Wilson  was  riding  just  ahead  of  me  one  afternoon.  I was  half 
asleep,  when  I felt  a smart  blow  on  my  stirrup.  I thought  a stone  had 
been  kicked  up.  A moment  after  the  tapadero  was  struck,  and  I was 
just  beginning  to  guess  at  the  truth,  when  I saw  the  heels  of  that 
mule  fly  up.  Probably  nothing  but  a quick  movement  of  my  leg  saved 
it  from  being  broken.  What  caused  that  beast  to  kick  at  me  three 
times  without  provocation? — anything  but  ‘‘pure  cussedness?” 

Their  tails,  too,  being  very  horse-like,  are  objects  of  great  pride  with 
them,  and  they  decidedly  resent  any  fooling  with  them.  The  worst 
spell  of  kicking  I ever  saw,  I think,  was  once  when  I accidentally  struck 
backward  with  my  three-lashed  Indian  quirt  and  got  one  thong  entan- 
gled in  Darby’s  caudal  extremity.  Such  a frightened  and  thoroughly 
indignant  beast  I never  bestrode  and  hope  never  to  again  ; but,  in  the 
expressive  phrase  of  that  hard-riding  region,  I “stayed  by  him.” 

The  first  ten  miles  that  morning  was  across  rolling,  grassy  hills, 
where  thousands  of  cattle  will  ere  long  find  plentiful  summer  pasturage, 
and  whence  the  eye  could  take  in  a wide  view  of  plains  and  mountains, 
savannas  and  woodland.  The  whole  length  of  the  majestic  Wind  River 
range  stood  out  behind  us,  blue -black  as  far  up  as  the  timber  grew, 
and  above  that  all  white  with  snow,  many  of  the  peaks  showing  not 
a spot  to  mar  their  perfect  cones.  Before  noon  we  could  see  the  storm 
clouds  chasing  each  other  through  the  mountains,  and  puffs  of  cloud 
drifted  away  from  the  peaks,  like  the  smoke  from  the  mouth  of  a can- 
non. Listening  to  the  low  growling  of  the  far  thunder,  it  was  easy  to 
imagine  a genuine  “ war  of  the  elements  ” taking  place  among  those 
tempest-breeding  heights. 

Turning  in  from  the  plains  to  the  entrance  of  the  long  east  and 
west  valley,  affording  a passage-way  through  the  range,  we  happily 
struck  an  Indian  trail,  and  followed  the  well-trodden  path  up  a long 
ravine  beside  an  exceedingly  picturesque  brook,  where  the  trout  were 
gliding  through  sunny  shallows  or  leaping  miniature  cascades,  and  the 
willows  that  arched  over  the  blue  beaver  ponds  were  full  of  singing 
birds.  We  scarcely  knew  when  we  reached  the  “ Divide,”  and  wound 
about  through  open  groves  of  evergreen  timber  with  an  ease  that  was 
luxury  after  our  experience  of  the  tangled,  log- obstructed  forests 


200 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


encountered  the  week  before.*  In  the  middle  of  the  range  the  trail 
forked  at  a diamond-shaped  prairie,  where  some  herds  of  Indian  horses 
were  feeding,  and  there  was  a log-house,  called  Bad  Man’s  Ranch — for 
what  reason  I do  not  know.  Skirting  this  prairie  and  ascending  the 
bed  of  a torrent  through  a narrow,  tortuous  ravine,  where  black-tailed 
deer  were  common,  we  stopped  in  a spruce  grove,  and  made  us  beds 
of  springy  boughs. 

Of  all  the  lovely  camping-places  in  my  recollection  I think  this  one 
over  in  Western  Wyoming,  among  the  nameless  heights  between  the 
Green  and  the  Snake  rivers,  bears  the  palm.  A ravine  diverged  from 
the  valley  we  had  been  travelling  through,  one  side  of  which  was  a 
high,  grassy  bank,  and  the  other  was  wooded  ; but  in  the  woods  opened 
a little  glade,  down  which  came  an  icy  rill,  tumbling  and  foaming  be- 
tween banks  of  moss  solid  to  the  water’s  edge.  All  about  were  gigan- 
tic, yellow -barked  spruces,  among  which  this  level  spot  had  remained 
clear,  just  capacious  enough  for  our  tents.  It  was  a place  for  perfect 
repose.  The  eye,  weary  with  incessant  far-seeing,  rested  content  on 
the  verdant  slope  that  cut  off  the  rest  of  the  world.  As,  after  the  tur- 
moil and  noise  of  the  city,  the  business  man  pulls  the  blinds  close  to- 
gether and  drops  the  curtain,  shutting  out  the  turbulent  scenes  of  his 
daily  struggle,  and  shutting  in  the  peace  and  love  of  his  home,  so  we 
were  thankful  that  we  could  not  see  even  the  loftiest  summits,  and 
gladly  gathered  round  our  cosy  hearth-stones,  where  the  spruce  boughs 
crackled  like  salt,  and  coils  of  black  smoke  writhed  up  from  the  res- 
inous logs. 

The  night  effect,”  as  painters  phrase  it,  of  such  a bivouac  as  this 
is  weirdly  curious.  One  need  not  be  afraid  to  walk  away  from  it  into 
the  gloom : the  Prince  of  Darkness  is  said  to  be  a gentleman.  And,  in 
fact,  it  is  not  dark  out  there  in  the  open  air;  for  under  the  lamps  of  the 
constellations,  and  in  that  strange  light  from  the  north,  even  midnight 
in  the  high  mountains  is  only  gray.  But  beneath  the  star-proof  trees 
there  is  the  blackness  of  plagued  Egypt — a darkness  which  may  be  felt 
in  thrusts  from  a thousand  needle-pointed  leaves  and  rough  cones,  if 
one  pushes  too  heedlessly  into  the  recesses  of  the  woods.  The  blaze  is 
orange-colored,  the  smoke  heavy  and  black,  illumined  redly  underneath. 
The  pillars  of  the  smooth  fir  trunks  within  reach  of  the  firelight  stand 
like  a stockade  about  the  camp,  but  the  shifting  light  penetrates  be- 
tween them  and  summons  from  the  darkness  new  boles,  that  step  out 


^ See  frontispiece. 


A NIGHT  IN  THE  SHADOWY  FOREST.  207 

and  retreat  again  as  the  capricious  flame  is  wafted  by  the  wind  toward 
or  away  from  that  side. 

While  the  centres  of  the  great,  gummy  logs  are  eaten  by  the  blaze, 
and  while  we  sit  on  their  ends  and  smoke  our  pipes,  what  soul-inspiring 
talk  is  heard  ! The  stories  flow  as  naturally  as  the  sparks  explore  the 
dark  arch  overhead,  but  it  is  no  more  possible  to  communicate  the  point 
and  living  fun  of  these  narratives,  told  with  the  Western  freedom  of  lan- 
guage and  usually  apropos  of  some  previous  tale,  than  it  is  to  tickle  your 
senses  with  the  sizzle  and  delectable  flavor  of  the  deer’s  juicy  ribs  roast- 
ing in  those  ashes.  Shut  in  by  the  shadowy  forest,  we  seem  to  inhabit 
a little  world  all  by  ourselves,  with  sky,  sun,  moon,  and  stars  of  our  own  ; 
and  we  converse  of  you  in  New  York  as  Proctor  does  of  the  inhabitants 
of  other  planets,  and  speculate  upon  the  movements  of  armies  and 
governments  as  the  Greeks  discussed  the  life  of  souls  across  the  Styx. 
The  affairs  of  the  outside  world  have  lost  interest  for  us,  since  we  are 
no  longer  spurred  by  the  heel  of  the  morning  newspaper.  In  simplify- 
ing our  life  to  a primitive  measure  we  have  ceased  to  trouble  ourselves 
about  problems  of  politics  or  social  economy,  and  are  beginning  to  dis- 
cover that  the  universe  is  less  complex  than  we  had  made  it.  Thus  we 
conduct  a sort  of  mental  exploration  parallel  with  the  geodetic  survey. 

Early  the  next  morning  two  of  us,  with  a burden-mule,  were  off  “ to 
make  a peak.”  It  was  just  at  sunrise  that  we  rode  through  the  woods, 
startling  a splendid  elk  from  under  a big  tree  where  he  was  sunning 
his  almost  mature  antlers,  and  we  got  out  above  the  timber  by  eight 
o’clock.  Here  the  snow  was  gone,  and  we  rode  easily  to  the  base  of 
the  crest.  This  we  had  to  climb ; and  although  the  distance  was  not 
more  than  half  a mile  to  the  summit,  we  were  well-nigh  exhausted,  for 
the  whole  way  was  over  loose  rock  that  slid  from  under  our  feet  at  ev- 
ery step.  It  was  almost  advisable  to  take  the  school-boy’s  plan  in  the 
old  story:  An  urchin  started  for  school  one  snowy  morning,  but  reached 
there  after  it  had  been  “ called.”  “ Why  were  you  tardy,  sir?”  shouted 
the  master,  birch  in  hand.  “ ’Cause  ’twas  so  slippery  I slipped  two  steps 
back  for  every  one  ahead,”  whimpered  the  boy.  “ Then  how  did  you 
get  here  at  all?”  “Turned  round  and  walked  backward,”  replied  the 
little  fellow,  and  saved  his  hide. 

Once  at  the  top  your  breath  comes  back,  and  as  long  as  you  keep 
still  you  suffer  no  inconvenience.  But  going  up  you  have  dismal 
thoughts  about  the  cold  grave,  etc. 

This  mountain  was  in  the  southern  portion  of  the  hills  ranging  north 
and  south,  along  whose  bases  we  had  been  travelling  for  the  previous 


208 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


ten  days,  and  around  whose  foot  we  had  passed  the  day  before.  It  was 
of  red  sandstone,  capped  with  drab,  crumbling  limestone.  Everywhere 
the  view  was  veiled  in  purple  haze,  through  which  the  red  and  yellow 
of  bare  ridge -tops  in  the  plains  gave  a faint  color.  The  lesser  hills 
about  the  mountain  were  of  every  shape,  with  wooded  valleys  between, 
but  their  heads  were  bald,  and  bare  of  snow,  which  lingered  only  in 
banks  on  shaded  slopes,  melting  slowly  into  hollows  of  the  surface, 
which,  overflowing,  drained  into  larger  hollows,  and  the  surplus  of  these 
collecting  into  ponds  formed  the  fountains  of  rills,  whose  united*  wa- 
ters were  gathered  into  creeks  and  carried  to  the  river  channels,  whose 
courses  we  could  mark  across  the  far  purple  heather  of  the  plains.  Let 
the  sun  beat  down  for  a day  with  unusual  fervor  and  the  clear  brooks 
are  turbid  little  floods,  carving  deep  canons  in  the  mountain’s  side,  and 
scattering  its  substance  far  beyond  its  base.  Thus  the  surface  of  the 
plain  and  that  of  the  mountain  top  are  slowly  approaching  one  another, 
and  the  universal  effort  of  Nature  to  re -adjust  the  disturbed  levelness 
of  the  globe  is  being  accomplished. 

However  interesting  it  might  prove,  time  forbids  even  to  suggest  all 
that  meets  the  eye  and  is  implanted  in  the  memory  while  one  is  sitting 
for  two  or  three  hours  on  a peak  of  the  Rocky  Mountains — the  surpris- 
ing clearness  of  the  air,  so  that  your  vision  penetrates  a hundred  and 

fifty  miles  ; the  steady  gale  of  wind  sucked  up  from  the  heated  val- 

leys ; the  frost  and  lightning  shattered  fragments  of  rock  incrusted  with 
lichens,  orange  and  green  and  drab  and  white ; the  miniature  mountains 
and  scheme  of  drainage  spread  before  you  ; the  bright  blue  and  yellow 
mats  of  moss-blossoms ; the  herds  of  big-horned  sheep,  unconscious  of 
your  watching ; the  hawks  leisurely  sailing  their  vast  aerial  circles  level 
with  your  eye  ; the  shadows  of  the  clouds  chasing  each  other  across 

the  landscape ; the  clouds  and  the  azure  dome  itself ; the  purple, 

snow- embroidered  horizon  of  mountains,  “upholding  heaven,  holding 
down  earth.”  I can  no  more  express  with  leaden  types  the  ineffable, 
intangible  ghost  and  grace  of  such  an  experience  than  I can  weigh 
out  to  you  the  ozone  that  empurples  the  dust  raised  by  the  play  of 
the  antelopes  in  yonder  amethyst  valley.  Moses  need  have  chosen 
no  particular  mountain  whereon  to  receive  his  inspiration.  The  divine 
Heaven  approaches  very  near  all  these  peaks. 

From  our  lofty  station  the  smoke  of  our  camp-fire  could  be  seen; 
and  as  we  could  thus  lay  our  course  there  was  little  difficulty  in  getting 
back  home.  But  in  work  of  this  kind  it  frequently  occurs  that  the  to- 
pographer must  send  his  camp  on  indefinitely,  and  it  is  not  always  that 


MISTAKING  THEIR  VOCATION. 


209 


he  can  see  their  signal-smoke  from  his  station.  The  finding  of  camp — 
frequently  reached  after  dark — then  becomes  a matter  of  woodcraft  and 
skill,  and  some  persons  never  can  find  it. 

A few  years  ago  a young  man  was  attached  to  one  of  these  Ter- 
ritorial Surveys — a graduate  of  Yale  College — who  knew  how  not  to 
do  it  to  perfection.  He  was  forever  getting  lost,  and  had  some  ex- 
periences fearful  to  contemplate.  One  day  the  party  with  which  he 
travelled  were  on  a hill  within  a mile  of  Canon  City,  Colorado,  in  plain 
view  of  the  town,  and  between  two  well-travelled  roads.  On  their  way 
to  the  town  a strip  of  timber  was  passed  through,  and  when  they  got 
past  this  and  into  the  village  the  Yale  man  wasn’t  there;  nor  did  he 
come  in  that  night.  The  next  day  some  of  the  men  started  to  look 
for  him,  and  met  him  coming  back — his  eyes  big  with  a story  to  tell. 
He  had  fallen  a few  feet  behind  the  party,  which  passed  just  out  of  his 
view,  when  in  some  curious  way  he  got  himself  turned  about  and  started 
in  precisely  the  wrong  direction,  wandering  and  twisting  and  turning  to 
no  purpose.  He  experienced  all  the  doleful  sensations  of  a lost  man, 
and  at  last  built  him  a little  fire  and  lay  down  to  sleep,  when,  lo  ! there 
stood  on  its  hind  legs  before  him  a mountain  lion  ! Color  indistinct, 
ears  long,  small  pointed  head,  big  body,  and  a short  white  tail  — he 
didn’t  wait  to  see  any  more,  but  fled  precipitately  until  out  of  breath. 
And  that  graduate  of  Yale  does  not  believe  to  This  day  that  it  was 
an  astonished  jack-rabbit  that  scared  him ! 

Another  member  of  the  same  expedition,  the  next  year,  who  soon 
found  that  he  had  mistaken  his  calling  in  seeking  to  be  an  explorer, 
and  wished  himself  back  on  Boston  Common  long  before  he  got  there, 
started  to  make  the  ascent  of  one  of  those  fearful  quartzite  peaks  in 
the  Uncompahgre  range  one  morning,  in  company  with  two  geologists 
who  were  born  mountaineers.  Seeing  his  inability  to  keep  up,  they 
pointed  out  to  him  where  the  Indian  trail  lay,  along  which,  some  miles 
ahead,  the  evening’s  camp  would  be  fixed.  Poor  Mr.  G.’s  breath  soon 
gave  out,  and  he  thought  he  would  stop,  then  concluded  he  would  go 
down  to  where  the  riding  animals  were  picketed  and  wait,  but,  growing 
impatient,  saddled  his  own  mule  and  started  for  camp.  He  recovered 
the  trail  and  trotted  along  merrily,  but  just  as  he  was  expecting  to  reach 
the  camp-train  he  found  himself  at  the  deserted  site  of  their  morning’s 
bivouac.  To  retrace  his  steps  in  the  right  direction  took  him  until 
twilight,  when,  just  as  dusk  was  coming  on,  he  heard  guns  fired  a little 
way  ahead  and  thought  he  saw  a fire.  Instantly  he  was  frightened — 
though  there  wasn’t  an  unfriendly  Indian  in  the  whole  region — and 


210 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


took  to  his  heels.  A moment’s  sensible  reflection  would  have  shown 
him  that  these  were  signals  meant  for  his  guidance,  but  his  fears  and 
his  greenness  together  made  a fool  of  him,  and  he  stayed  out  all  night, 
supperless,  fireless,  and  quaking  with  imaginary  fright. 

Of  another  expedition  in  Nevada,  where  some  soldiers  were  acting 
as  escort,  an  equal  stupidity  is  related.  Coming  to  a halt  early  one 
evening,  a soldier  obtained  permission  to  go  and  hunt  near  camp. 
Darkness  came  on,  and  as  he  had  not  returned  shots  were  fired  and  a 
great  blaze  made  to  guide  his  return.  Before  long  those  in  camp  heard 
his  shouts,  and  hallooed  in  reply.  This  howling  dialogue  was  kept  up 
at  intervals  until  bed-time,  but  poor  Johnny  hadn’t  wit  enough  to  fol- 
low the  sounds,  and  so  slept  far  from  h-is  blankets  until  daylight — if  he 
slept  at  all — and  got  well  laughed  at,  as  he  deserved,  in  the  morning. 

But  such  stupidity  and  absence  of  woodcraft  are  the  exception;  the 
finding  of  their  way  correctly  under  the  most  adverse  circumstances  is 
the  rule  with  these  explorers  and  native  mountaineers,  and  many  aston- 
ishing incidents  illustrating  skill  in  this  respect  are  to  be  related. 


THE  MULE  THE  ABSORBING  CAMP-FIRE  THEME. 


211 


XXV. 

Perhaps  I remember  the  camping-place  described  in  the  last  chap- 
ter, and  from  which  I have  only  seemed  to  have  wandered,  so  pleasantly, 
because  of  the  jolly  anecdotes  lingering  in  my  memory  first  heard  there. 

After  sunset  the  air  in  these^high.  Western  regions  grows  rapidly 
cool,  and  a chill  air  from  the  snow-banks  seems  to  settle  down  and  take 
possession  of  the  warm  nooks  where  the  sunbeams  have  been  playing 
all  day.  Now  the  long-caped,  blue  cavalry  overcoats  (bought  in  Den- 
ver or  Cheyenne  for  three  dollars  apiece)  are  unstrapped  from  behind 
the  saddles,  fresh  wood  is  piled  upon  the  fire,  the  pipes  are  newly  filled, 
and  the  circling  smoke,  exploring  the  recesses  of  the  dark  tree -tops, 
looks  down  on  an  exceedingly  contented  company. 

Then,  as  the  fragrant  herb  glows  in  the  pipe-bowl,  and  the  darkness 
shuts  in  the  fire  and  the  little  circle  about  it  from  the  great  Without, 
tongues  are  unloosed,  and  the  treasures  of  memory  are  drawn  upon  to 
enliven  the  hour.  All  these  mountain-men  are  great  talkers,  and  most 
of  them  tell  a story  in  a very  vivid  way — a way  purely  their  own,  sound- 
ing barbarous  to  other  ears,  so  full  is  it  of  slang,  local  phrases,  and  pro- 
fanity, but  in  a language  perfectly  understood  and  with  a wit  keenly 
appreciated  by  kindred  listeners.  Tales  of  Indian  warfare  and  border 
ruffianism  in  the  old  days  of  the  emigrant  trail,  the  founding  of  the 
Mormon  settlements,  the  track -laying  of  the  Pacific  railway,  and  the 
gold  discoveries ; stories  of  the  road  agents — robbers  of  the  mails  and 
expresses — who  never  let  a man  out  of  the  country  with  any  money, 
and  of  the  scarcely  preferable  vigilantes  who  sought  to  rid  the  moun- 
tains of  these  human  wolves,  only  to  learn  that  the  persons  most 
trusted  in  their  councils  were  the  ringleaders  of  crime.  Between  the 
road  agents  and  the  vigilantes  no  man  was  safe : the  former  might  kill 
him  to  get  him  out  of  the  way,  the  latter  might  hang  him  on  the  single 
charge  that  the  ruffians  let  him  alone.  But  the  theme  of  all  themes 
which  is  never  neglected, 'and  which  lasts  clear  through  the  trip,  is  tJie 
mule. 


212 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


The  mountain  mule  is  a perpetual  study.  No  animal  in  the  world 
possesses  so  much  individuality  and  will  develop  in  a given  time  so 
many  distinct  phases  of  character.  His  sagacity  in  some  directions  is 
balanced  by  most  desperate  stupidity  in  others.  A herd  shows  a wide 
range  of  variation  in  tractability  and  in  other  traits  among  its  members. 
You  cannot  fail  to  note  this  in  their  different  countenances,  to  which 
the  long  ears  lend  so  much  expression ; but  all  their  characteristics 
are  positive,  and  are  asserted  in  the  most  startling  manner.  They  are 

crotchety,  too,  and  it  is  often 
impossible  to  overcome  their 
prejudices.  One  I knew  who 
would  never  allow  himself  to 
be  caught  to  have  his  pack 
put  on  or  re-adjusted  until  all 
the  rest  had  been  attended  to ; 
then  he  was  quite  ready  and 
docile.  Another  was  a good, 
gentle  riding  animal,  and  had 
no  objection  to  your  pipe,  but 
you  must  get  off  to  light  it ; 
strike  a match  in  the  saddle, 
and  Satan  entered  into  his 
breast  on  the  instant.  The 
same  fellow  had  an  insupera- 
ble objection  to  entering  wa- 
ter— an  unfortunate  trait,  for 
before  crossing  an  unknown  stream  with  a pack-train  it  is  desirable  to 
know  what  sort  of  a ford  it  is,  and  the  man  who  rode  this  mule  was  the 
one  whose  duty  it  generally  was  to  make  the  test.  The  animal  would 
walk  straight  down  to  the  margin,  then  rear  upon  his  hind-legs  and  spin 
round  like  a flash. 

I had  a mule  once  that  would  bray  ferociously  and  incessantly  when- 
ever it  was  out  of  hearing  of  the  train’s  bell.  It  was  an  excessively  an- 
noying habit,  and,  persuasion  failing,  I one  day  dug  my  spurs  into  its 
ribs,  and  hammered  its  head  first  with  a strap,  then  with  the  butt  of  my 
pistol,  every  time  the  hideous  voice  was  raised.  I felt  that  there  was  no 
sense  in  the  absurd  practice,  and  I was  bound  to  break  it.  But  after  an 
hour  or  two  it  was  hard  to  keep  my  seat,  for  about  once  a minute  the 
beast  would  duck  its  head  and  jump  as  though  propelled  from  a cannon, 
uttering  a terrible  bray,  apparently  just  to  invite  punishment.  So  I 


EXASPERATING  TRIALS  OF  PATIENCE. 


213 


changed  my  tactics,  and  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  the  habit,  and  in 
a couple  of  days  had  no  farther  annoyance.  Mules  know  what  disturbs 
you,  and  malignantly  do  that  one  thing  regardless  of  pain  to  them- 
selves. Another  mule  I had  was  an  exemplar  of  this  trait.  He  had 
a trick  of  swelling  himself  out  when  I put  the  saddle  on,  so  that 
it  was  impossible  to  make  the  girth  tight  ; I might  as  well  have 
tried  to  draw  in  the  waist  of  a steamboat  boiler;  and  to  secure  the 
saddle  properly  I always  had  to  catch  him  unawares,  after  we  had  got 
started. 

It  is  not  easy  to  gain  a mule’s  confidence,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
rarely  merits  yours.  I have  known  one  to  carry  his  rider  in  the  most 
exemplary  manner  for  hundreds  of  miles,  and  then  one  morning  begin  a 
series  of  antics  and  develop  an  unruliness  as  uncomfortable  as  it  was  un- 
expected. Sometimes  you  can  train  them  with  considerable  satisfac- 
tion, but  you  never  feel  quite  sure  of  them.  They  are  forever  doing 
something  surprising,  heroically  pulling  through  real  difficulties  to  give 
up  tamely  before  some  sham  obstacle.  This  is  partly  owing  to  their 
absurd  timidity.  If  one  scares,  all  the  rest  are  panic-stricken.  A piece 
of  black  wood,  like  the  embers  of  an  old  fire,  will  cause  almost  any  mule 
to  shy.  A bowlder  of  a certain  shape  was  invariably  regarded  with  dis- 
trust by  one  I used  to  ride.  Rattlesnakes  they  hold  in  just  abhorrence  ; 
bears  paralyze  them  with  terror ; Indians  they  cannot  be  spurred  to  ap- 
proach. This  excessive  timidity  is  the  result  of  their  social  habits.  A 
mule  cannot  bear  to  be  left  alone;  and  although  he  knows  he  can  go 
straight  back  from  wherever  you  may  take  him,  following  the  trail  like 
a hound,  yet  he  considers  himself  hopelessly  lost  and  forlorn  when  he 
can  no  longer  hear  the  bell.  It  is  his  use  and  habit  to  go  with  it.  It 
means  everything  which  makes  life  happy  for  him,  and  he  will  endure 
very  much  punishment  before  forsaking  it.  However,  two  or  three 
travelling  together  all  day  by  themselves,  keep  one  another  company 
and  get  along  very  well. 

This  attachment  to  the  train,  while  it  has  been  the  salvation  of  many 
an  outfit,  becomes  a great  nuisance  on  the  march.  Mile  after  mile  you 
plod  along  in  the  rear  at  a right-foot,  left-foot,  right-foot,  left-foot  jog, 
which  in  the  course  of  seven  or  eight  hours  wears  out  muscles  and  pa- 
tience. The  sun  beats  down,  the  dust  rises  up,  and  your  only  entertain- 
ment is  the  cow-bell  hung  on  the  neck  of  the  leader.  The  first  hour  you 
do  not  mind  it  much  ; the  second,  it  grows  wearisome ; the  third,  pain- 
ful, and  you  hold  your  ears  to  shut  out  the  monotonous  clangor;  the 
fourth  hour  you  go  crazy.  All  life  centres  about  that  tireless  hammer- 


214 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


ing  and  endless  conning,  till,  in  unison  with  the  ceaseless  copper-clatter 
of  that  ding-dong  bell,  your  mind  loses  itself  in 

“ Hokey  pokey  winkey  wang, 

Linkum  lankum  muscodang; 

The  Injun  swore  that  he  would  hang 
The  man  that  couldn’t  keep  warm.” 

You  cannot  get  away  from  it.  What  is  misery  to  you  is  melody  to 
the  mule ; and  if  you  try  to  ride  him  outside  of  the  music  of  the  bell, 
he  may,  perhaps,  be  made  to  go,  but  it  will  be  in  such  a protesting,  halt- 
ing, lame  and  blind  way,  with  such  “ uncertain  steps  and  slow,”  turnings 
of  reproachful  eye  and  brayings  of  uplifted  voice,  that  you  will  find  it 
better  to  endure  the  evils  of  the  pack-train  than  to  attempt  to  escape 
from  it.  Of  course,  if  you  go  clear  away,  out  of  sight  and  sound,  the 
beast  is  obliged  to  content  himself;  but  on  the  march  this  is  not  always 
pleasant  or  practicable. 

But  a diversion  awaits.  It  is  afternoon.  Everybody  is  dozing.  The 
distant  line  of  trees  which  marks  the  day’s  destination  is  in  sight,  and 
the  mules  have  been  well-behaved  all  day.  Plodding  along  in  front  of 
you  at  a rapid  walk,  very  demurely,  heads  down,  eyes  half  closed,  ears 
monotonously  wagging,  you  think  they  have  forgotten  all  their  pranks, 
abandoned  all  intentions  of  wickedness  concocted  in  the  restful  leisure 
of  the  early  morning,  and  you  fall  into  admiring  contemplation  of  their 
exceeding  docility  and  sweetness.  Meanwhile  the  aparejo  and  load  of 
a certain  little  buckskin -hued  Cayuse  mule  have  been  slipping  back- 
ward, and  he,  knowing  it,  has  made  no  sign,  but  has  quietly  wriggled  and 
swelled  himself  until  he  has  got  far  enough  through  the  sinch  to  try  his 
experiment.  With  the  suddenness  and  agility  of  a grasshopper  he  now 
gives  a tremendous  leap  toward  one  side,  bucks  high  in  the  air  a dozen 
times  in  as  many  seconds,  dancing  about  and  kicking,  stands  straight 
up  on  his  hind-legs,  and  falls  over  backward  ; next  he  squirms  rapidly 
through  the  loosened  girths  until  he  can  bring  his  heels  to  bear,  and 
kicks  boxes,  bags,  and  bundles  until  the  saddle  slips  down  over  his  legs 
and  confines  them  like  a handcuff.  Then  he  rolls  over  and  quietly  nib- 
bles the  grass  within  reach,  waiting,  in  the  most  exasperating  uncon- 
cern, until  you  shall  come  and  release  him. 

It  will  readily  be  understood  that  an  Eastern  man  finds  the  tricks 
and  treachery,  lively  heels,  and  diabolical  disposition  of  the  mule  a con- 
stant check  upon  the  enjoyment  of  Western  work  and  wandering.  The 
mule-packers  are  the  most  desperately  profane  men  I have  ever  met ; 


PROFANITY  OF  THE  MULE-PACKERS. 


215 


they  exhibit  a real  genius  in  “good  mouth-filling  oaths.”  Considering 
the  vexation  to  which  they  are  subjected,  and  which  they  must  not  oth- 
erwise retaliate,  lest  they  should  injure  the  precious  endurance  and  car- 
rying  power  upon  which  their  lives  depend,  and  which  make  mules  far 
more  valuable  than  horses  for  mountain  service,  it  is  not  surprising. 
And  though  these  strong  and  agile  animals  will  stand  for  hours  when 
the  bridle-rein  of  one  is  merely  thrown  over  the  ear  of  his  neighbor,  un- 
der the  delusion  that  they  are  securely  fastened,  they  are  very  wise  and 
cunning,  and  can  doubtless  talk  among  themselves  ; but  it  is  an  unfort- 


CONTENTED  VICTIMS  OF  A DELUSION. 


unate  fact  that  their  wisdom  is  all  exerted  for  wickedness,  and  their  con- 
versation used  chiefly  in  plotting  combined  mischief.  And  it  is  my  hon- 
est and  serious  opinion,  founded  upon  much  observation,  that  so  long 
as  any  considerable  numbers  of  mules  are  employed  there,  it  is  utterly 
.useless  for  missionaries  to  go  to  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

The  last  pipe  smoked,  the  longest  story  heard  out,  such  slumber  fol- 
lows as  defies  any  ordinary  disturbance  to  break  in  upon.  With  com- 
plete composure  you  sleep  through  a steady  rain  falling  on  the  piece  of 
canvas  laid  over  your  face,  or  in  momentary  expectation  of  being  sur- 
prised by  Indians.  I have  heard  of  a few  camps  in  the  old  days  having 
been  run  over  by  a stam.pede  of  buffaloes  now  and  then  ; but  this,  fort- 
unately, was  rare.  Now  few  worse  interruptions  of  this  sort  occur  to 


216 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


rest  than  the  tramping  among  the  sleepers  of  mules,  in  their  attempt  to 
make  some  felonious  attack  upon  the  edible  portion  of  the  cargo ; and 
this  only  occurs  where  pasturage  is  scant.  Once,  camping  near  a Mexi- 
can pack-train  of  donkeys,  we  were  thus  greatly  annoyed  by  those  little 
brutes. 

Now  and  then,  on  the  plains,  coyotes  venture  close  to  camp,  and,  if 
they  are  very  hungry,  even  come  to  the  fireside  in  search  of  meat,  and 
perhaps  attempt  to  gnaw  the  straps  off  the  saddle  or  boots  your  weary 
head  reclines  upon.  Foiled  in  this,  they  adjourn  to  a respectful  dis- 
tance and  set  up  prolonged  and  lugubrious  howls,  which  either  keep 
you  awake  altogether  or  attune  your  dreams  to  some  horrible  theme. 
Perhaps  I ought  not  to  use  the  plural,  since  one  coyote’s  voice  is  capa- 
ble of  noise  enough  to  simulate  a whole  pack.  No  doubt  it  often  hap- 
pens that  when  a score  seem  howling  in  shrill  concert  there  is  really 
but  a single  wolf  raining  his  quick-repeated  and  varied  cries  upon  our 
unwilling  ears.  These  small  wolves  are  justly  despised  by  all  Western 
men  ; but  the  big  gray  wolves  are  a different  matter. 

While  cougars  and  wolves  and  coyotes,  and  even  Mexican  burros, 
are  rare  infringers  on  the  sacred  privacy  of  your  sleep,  numerous  “ small 
deer”  come  to  investigate  the  curious  stranger  who  has  stretched  him- 
self out  in  their  domain.  Rattlesnakes  are  extremely  numerous  over 
many  parts  of  the  West,  and  we  used  to  fear  that,  with  their  love 
of  warmth,  they  would  seek  the  shelter  of  our  bedding  to  escape  the 
chill  of  the  night ; but  I do  not  know  of  any  such  an  unpleasant  bed- 
fellow having  been  found  by  any  of  the  Survey  people.  I myself  came 
pretty  near  to  it,  however,  over  on  Cochetopa  creek,  in  Colorado,  one 
night,  when  I unwittingly  spread  my  blankets  over  a small  hole  in  the 
ground.  I snoozed  on,  unmindful  of  danger;  but  when  I moved  my 
bed  in  the  morning  out  from  the  hole  crawled  a huge  rattler,  whose 
door-way  I had  stopped  up  all  night!  He  would  better  have  stayed  in, 
for  big  John  of  Oregon  caught  him  by  the  tail  and  broke  his  stupid 
neck  before  he  had  time  to  throw  himself  into  a coil  of  vantage  for 
the  strike. 

If  you  camp  in  the  woods  you  are  certain  of  late  visitors  in  the 
shape  of  mice  and  the  ubiquitous  and  squeaky  ground-squirrels,  whose 
nocturnal  rambles  lead  them  all  over  your  bed-covers ; often,  indeed, 
their  rapid,  sharp-toed  little  feet  scud  across  your  cheek,  and  their  furry 
tails  trail  athwart  the  bridge  of  your  nose,  brushing  the  dew  from  your 
sealed  eyelids.  To  the  thousand  insects  rustling  in  the  grass  we  nev- 
er gave  attention  ; and  not  even  the  most  home-bred  tender-foot  ever 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING  IN  THE  CAMP. 


217 


thought  of  cotton  in  his  ears ! How  thus  could  he  hear  all  the  pleasant, 
faint  voices  speaking  through  the  night  so  close  about  him  ? Thoreau, 
writing  from  his  camp  on  a sloping  bank  of  the  Merrimac,  has  well  de- 
scribed the  sounds  of  the  night: 

“ With  our  heads  so  low  in  the  grass,  we  heard  the  river  whirling 
and  sucking,  and  lapsing  downward,  kissing  the  shore  as  it  went,  some- 
times rippling  louder  than  usual,  and  again  its  mighty  current  making 
only  a slight,  limpid,  trickling  sound,  as  if  our  water- pail  had  sprung 
aleak  and  the  water  were  flowing  into  the  grass  by  our  side.  The 
wind,  rustling  the  oaks  and  hazels,  impressed  us  like  a wakeful  and  in- 
considerate person  up  at  midnight,  moving  about,  and  putting  things 
to  rights,  occasionally  stirring  up  whole  drawers  full  of  leaves  at  a 
puff.  There  seemed  to  be  a great  haste  and  preparation  throughout 
Nature,  as  for  a distinguished  visitor;  all  her  aisles  had  to  be  swept  in 
a night  by  a thousand  hand-maidens,  and  a thousand  pots  to  be  boiled 
for  the  next  day’s  feasting — such  a whispering  bustle,  as  if  ten  thou- 
sand fairies  made  their  fingers  fly,  silently  sewing  at  the  new  carpet 
with  which  the  earth  was  to  be  clothed,  and  the  new  drapery  which 
was  to  adorn  the  trees.  And  the  wind  would  lull  and  die  away,  and 
we,  like  it,  fell  asleep  again.” 

But  I am  dwelling  too  long  upon  this  rare  wakefulness  in  camp, 
rather  than  the  ordinary  and  business-like  repose  of  the  night.  One’s 
sleep  in  the  crisp  air,  after  the  fatigues  of  the  hard  day,  is  sound  and 
serene.  But  the  morning!  Ah,  that  is  the  time  that  tries  men’s  souls! 
In  this  land  one  would  find  it  very  unpleasantly  cold  to  be  with  her 
when 

“Jocund  Day 

Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-top.” 

You  awake  at  daylight  a little  chilly,  re-adjust  your  blankets,  and  want 
again  to  sleep.  The  sun  may  pour  forth  from  the  “ golden  window  of 
the  east  ” and  flood  the  world  with  limpid  light ; the  stars  may  pale 
and  the  jet  of  the  midnight  sky  be  diluted  to  that  deep  and  perfect 
morning  blue  into  which  you  gaze  to  unmeasured  depths;  the  air  may 
become  a pervading  champagne,  dry  and  delicate,  every  draught  of 
which  tingles  the  lungs  and  spurs  the  blood  along  the  veins  with 
joyous  speed  ; the  landscape  may  woo  the  eyes  with  airy  undulations 
of  prairie  or  snow-pointed  pinnacles  lifted  sharply  against  the  azure — 
yet  sleep  chains  you.  That  very  quality  of  the  atmosphere  which  con- 
tributes to  all  this  beauty  and  makes  it  so  delicious  to  be  awake  makes 
it  equally  blessed  to  slumber.  Lying  there  in  the  utterly  open  air, 

15 


218 


KNOCKING  ’ROUND  THE  ROCKIES. 


breathing  the  pure  elixir  of  the  untainted  mountains,  you  come  to 
think  even  the  confinement  of  a flapping  tent  oppressive,  and  the  ven- 
tilation of  a sheltering  spruce-bough  bad. 


ICY  ABLUTIONS. 


This  was  practically  the  end  of  the  trip.  There  were  several  days 
of  marching  and  work  later  than  that  before  we  reached  Fort  Hall  and 
the  Agency  of  the  Bannock  Indians,  in  Southern  Idaho.  Thence,  hav- 
ing separated  from  my  companions,  I went  northward  by  stage  to  Mon- 
tana, visiting  Virginia  City,  Bozeman,  Helena,  and  Fort  Benton.  At 
the  latter  place  a steamer  was  obtained  by  which  I descended,  in  a 
seven  days’  voyage,  the  Upper  Missouri  to  Bismarck,  Dakota.  This 
was  then  the  terminus  of  the  Northern  Pacific  Railway,  by  which  I jour- 
ney to  St.  Paul,  and  so  on  along  the  magnificent  route  of  the  Chicago, 
Milwaukee,  and  St.  Paul  Railway  to  New  York,  and  home. 


INDEX 


Above  timber-line,  35,  107,  108. 

A ducking  in  the  South  Platte,  63. 
yEgialitis  Diontanus,  86. 

Air,  clearness  of,  208. 

Angwinam,  a Shoshonee,  203,  204. 
Assaying  precious  ores,  115. 

Baker’s  Park,  113. 

Bears,  stories  of,  186. 

Beaver-dams,  196,  197. 
Beaver-skins,  price  of,  197,  198. 
Bed,  substance  and  form  of,  65. 
Berthoud  Pass,  40. 

Bighorns,  199. 

Buffalo-gnats,  200. 

Camp,  making  a,  40, 
Camp-cooking,  42. 

Camping  in  the  rain,  62. 
Camp-birds,  52. 

Camp,  evenings  in,  51,  64. 

Canon  scenery,  109. 

California  Gulch,  80. 

Cherry  Creek  booms,  I2. 
Cliff-scaling  at  night,  37. 

Cold,  precautions  against,  67. 
Colorado,  first  newspaper  of,  8. 
Conies,  or  Little  Chief  hares,  36. 
Cook,  the  camp,  21, 
Cottonwood-trees,  7,  15. 

Cradling  and  Sluicing,  75. 
Cunningham  Gulch,  109. 

Denver,  2,  7. 

Diamond-hitch,  the,  26, 

Elks,  shooting  of,  198. 

Empire  deserted,  82. 


Fishing,  41. 

Flapjacks,  45. 

Flies,  black,  200. 

Flour-sack  garments,  31, 

Food  in  camp,  21,  43. 

Foot-hills,  the,  27,  29. 

Fremont’s  Peak,  climbing  of,  186,  187. 

Game,  confidence  of,  198. 

Glaciers,  188,  189. 

Gold  discovered  in  Colorado,  2. 
Gold-digging,  72. 

Gold-mining,  process  of,  72. 

Gold,  geology  of,  84,  115. 

Grand  Lake,  58. 

Gx'and  River,  the,  64. 

Granite,  the  ball  at,  70 
Grave  of  Indian  child,  204. 

Green  river,  source  of,  195. 

Green  River  plains,  203. 

Gros  Ventre  hills,  195. 

Gros  Ventre  river,  source  of,  195. 

Gros  Ventre  Indians,  196. 

Hiriindo  erythrogastrum , SI- 
Hot  sulphur  springs,  55. 

Hydraulic  mining,  81. 

“ Instinct”  at  fault,  86. 

Indian  wars  near  Denver,  13. 

Jay,  Canada,  52. 

Kitchen-kit  and  its  stowage,  21,  40,  43, 

Lagoviys  princeps,  36. 

Long’s  Peak,  storm  scene,  23. 


220 


INDEX. 


Maple-trees,  202. 

Middle  Park,  scenery  of,  55,  61. 

Miners’  camps  and  villages,  30,  63,  79,  83. 
Miners,  picturesque,  31,  70. 

Moles,  196. 

Morning  in  the  Rockies,  217, 

Mountains,  descent  of,  201. 

“ Mountain  Harry  ” Yount,  46. 

Mosquito  Pass,  a lonely  night  in,  68. 
Mosquitoes,  195,  200. 

Mules,  fording  and  swimming  of,  204. 
Mules,  ears  of,  204,  205. 

Mules,  tails  of,  205. 

Mules,  traits  of,  18,  23,  39,  40,  219. 

Navajos,  102. 

Owl,  shooting  an,  58. 

Ouray,  89. 

Ouzel,  the,  63. 

Packing  mules,  25. 

Pines,  white  and  yellow,  202. 

Plovers,  86. 

Poplars,  202. 

Putting  on  the  aparejos,  16. 

Rattlesnakes,  216. 

Rendezvous  camp,  the,  16. 

Rio  Grande,  the,  107. 

Riots  in  early  Denver,  ii 


Rocky  Mountains,  approach  to,  22,  34. 

Rocky  Mountains,  geology  of,  26. 

Rocky  Mountain  News  established,  8. 

Rocky  Mountain  Herald^  9. 

San  Juan,  the,  109. 

Sparrow,  the  white-crowned,  38. 

Starvation  threatened,  105. 

Stowing  of  personal  baggage,  17. 

Sumachs,  202. 

Swallow,  the  cliff,  57. 

Swallow,  the  barn,  57. 

Swallows  in  Middle  Park,  57. 

Sweet-water  river,  the  course  of,  190. 

Tents,  65. 

The  war-bag,  17. 

Utes,  traditions  of,  58,  102. 

Utes,  history  of,  91,  loi. 

Utes,  manners  and  customs  of,  92,  104. 

Utes,  costumes  of  the,  89,  101. 

Utes,  Southern  agency  of,  88. 

Wind  River  mountains,  description  of,  187. 
191. 

Wyoming,  195. 

Yale  students,  terrors  of,  209. 

Yount,  Harry,  46. 

Zonotrichia  leticophrys^  38,  146. 


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Shakspeare’s  Dramatic  Works  and  Poems. 

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inal and  Selected,  and  Introductory  Remarks  to  each  Play,  by  Samuel  AA^eller 
Singer,  F.S.A.,  and  a Life  of  the  Poet,  by  Charles  Symmons,  D.D.  Illustra- 
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3 


Halpine’s  (Miles  O'Reilly)  Poems. 

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Odes,  Poems,  Sonnets,  Epics,  and  Lyrical  Elfnsions  which  have  not  heretofore 
been  collected  togethei-.  With  a Biographical  Sketch  and  Explanatory  Notes. 
Edited  by  Robert  B,  Roosevelt.  Portrait  on  Steel.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Bayne’s  Lessons  from  My  Masters. 

Lessons  from  My  Masters : Carlyle,  Tennyson,  and  Riiskin.  By  Peter  Bayne, 
M.A.,  LL.D.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Osgood’s  American  Leaves. 

American  Leaves : Familiar  Notes  of  Thought  and  Life.  By  Rev.  Samuel 
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Sir  Walter  Scott’s  Poems. 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 

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The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

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Marmion. 

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The  Book  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems. 

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The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scotland : 

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from  the  Works  of  the  more  Noteworthy  Scottish  Poets,  with  Biographical 
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Deshler’s  Afternoons  with  the  Poets. 

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Songs  of  Our  Youth. 

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Anthony  Froude. — Cowper.  By  Goldwin  Smith. — Pope.  By  Leslie  Stephen.— 
Byron.  By  John  Nichol. — Locke.  By  Thomas  Fowler.  — Wordsworth.  By 
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Mason’s  Samuel  Johnson, 

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Bigelow’s  Beneh  and  Bar. 

Bench  and  Bar : a Complete  Digest  of  the  A¥it,  Humor,  Asperities,  and  Amen- 
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Egleston’s  Villages  and  Village  Life. 

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Goldsmith’s  Poetical  Works. 

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Goldsmith’s  Plays. 

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Goldsmith’s  Poems. 

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Friends  Worth  Knowing. 

Glimpses  of  American  Natural  History.  By  Ernest  Ingersoll.  Illustrated. 
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Syiiiontls’s  Studies  of  the  Greek  Poets. 

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Symonds’s  Sketches  and  Studies  in  Southern  Europe. 

Sketches  and  Studies  in  Southern  Europe.  By  John  Addington  Symonds. 
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The  Old  House  by  the  River. 

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Later  Years. 

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I Go  a-Fishing. 

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Under  the  Trees. 

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Benjamin’s  Contemporary  Art  in  Europe. 

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Benjamin’s  Art  in  America. 

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nated and  Gilt,  $4  00. 

Benjamin’s  Atlantic  Islands. 

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jamin. Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

Spofford's  Art  Decoration  Applied  to  Furniture. 

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Art  Education  Applied  to  Industry. 

Art  Education  Applied  to  Industry.  By  George  Ward  Nichols.  Illus- 
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Pottery  and  Porcelain. 

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0 


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Miss  Young’s  Ceramic  Art. 

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and  Porcelain.  By  Jennie  J.  Young.  646  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

Swinton’s  Studies  in  English  Literature. 

Studies  in  English  Literature : being  Typical  Selections  of  British  and  Ameri- 
can Authorship,  from  Shakspeare  to  the  Present  Time ; together  with  Defini- 
tions, Not^s,  Analyses,  and  Glossary,  as  an  Aid  to  Systematic  Literary  Study. 
By  William  Swinton.  With  Portraits.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Gibson's  Pastoral  Days. 

Pastoral  Days;  or.  Memories  of  a New  England  Year.  By  W.  Hamilton  Gib- 
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Reclus’s  Histor}i  of  a Mountain. 

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Reclus’s  Earth. 

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Reclus’s  Ocean. 

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Flammarion’s  Atmosphere. 

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Homes  Without  Hands. 

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Man  and  Beast,  Here  and  Hereafter. 

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The  Illustrated  Natural  History. 

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Published  by  HARPER  & BROTHERS,  New  York. 

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